


"You're an idiot." "And you're a sap."

by the_painless_moustache



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: First Time, M/M, Smut, Teenlock, for me and them, lots of little sadnesses for my boys, might change to explicit, rated mature for future stuff, so I guess a bit of angst
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-10-31
Updated: 2014-02-09
Packaged: 2017-12-31 00:54:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 10
Words: 26,246
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1025417
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_painless_moustache/pseuds/the_painless_moustache
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“You asked why you.”<br/> “Yeah?”<br/> “I suppose it’s because you don’t mind.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Wow okay so um this is my first time publishing and if it goes well I'll post more, otherwise I'll just tuck it back into it's hiding spot.  
> Also, title is WIP but damn it I have nothing else so

 Sherlock had always adored wintertime, but for the first year maybe ever he was dreading it. The trees were bare already. He’d managed to put off school for a few months now. It wouldn’t last forever. The death of his father would only be an excuse for so long, Mycroft had made that clear.

 He breathes hotly on the window, drawing a finger through the fog before it clears. He can see Mycroft outside, umbrella swinging, gray eyes trained on his feet as he trudges through muddy leaves. Suddenly his mother appears, moving to intercept him. They speak for a few moments, Mycroft’s eyes never leaving his shoes. Sherlock imagines he’s trying to figure out a way to clean them later.

 He watches his mother and brother stand around each other silently for nearly ten minutes before his mother disappears once more. A few minutes later, he hears her feet on the stairs.

 “Sherlock?”                         

 He doesn’t answer. He knows it’s childish, but part of him hopes that she won’t find him. Which is ridiculous, because if anyone can find him it’s his mother.

 She comes in the room only a step. “Sherlock, I’ve been looking for you.”

 “Obviously not, or you’d have found me. Which you now have.”

 She ignores the attitude. “Mycroft’s worried.”

 “And you’re not?”

 “He seems to think that you starting school tomorrow is worrisome.”

 Sherlock raises an eyebrow.

 “I have faith you’ll keep yourself in check.”

 “ _You’ll_ have faith?” Sherlock snorts. “Faith in _me_? Since when?”

 He hears her bristle. “You owe it to this family to behave yourself!” she hisses.

 Sherlock watches his brother, still standing in the mixture of muck. “Yes, mother.”

 He’s surprised the following Monday, because not a single person notices he’s returned. He thought maybe they’d whisper about him. _Freak is back, The psychopath has returned_ …anything, really. And he’d braced himself for it.

 Only no one notices. No one whispers. They all brush by him in the halls like he’s old news, which he is, but that never stopped them before.

 It takes him five minutes to discover why.

 He walks into Chemistry and the whole class is surrounding a blonde boy with a bright smile who must’ve just told some great joke because everyone’s howling in laughter. There’s no teacher around yet, so it gives them plenty of time to notice Sherlock.

 The classroom goes so quiet Sherlock’s sure they’ll hear his heartbeat. He doesn’t look at any of them. He just looks at the boy with the blonde hair, and he’s grinning back, though it’s confused. Like _Sherlock’s_ the one who shouldn’t be here, not this unknown golden boy.

 “Sherlock.”

 His concentration is broken as a girl winds her way through the crowd—she’d been pretty near the new boy. “You came!” she’s beaming at him, and comes up just short of touching him. He looks down at her, her brown hair pulled back neatly and her smile eager.

 “Of course I came, Molly. It’s school. If I didn’t come, I’d be truant, and I’ve no time to deal with that.”

 Her smile falters and she laughs nervously. “Right. Of course. I just wasn’t sure…”

 “Who’s this?”

 The boy’s watching them, and his grin has faded. He’s the one who’s asked, and if Sherlock wasn’t mistaken there’s a fierce protective light in his eyes. Sherlock cocks his head to the side and smirks his best under-the-skin smirk. Molly doesn’t notice and flutters about introducing them. “Oh! This is Sherlock. Holmes, that is. Sherlock Holmes. And, Sherlock, this is—”

 “Don’t care.” Sherlock interrupts, because really, he doesn’t. “Where’s the teacher?”

 “He’s, ah…well, we don’t know.”

 “Only you would look for a teacher, Holmes.” someone sneers. He can’t be bothered to remember who.

 Sherlock turns to the desk and scans it, his eyebrows going up. “Well, maybe you should be more concerned, Mr. Collins.” Carver Collins, he remembers now. He turns and smiles. “Because he’s sleeping with your mother.”

 “ _Excuse me?_ ” Carver roars, breaking out of the group. Someone catches his arm to try and stop him, but it’s a weak attempt and Carver breaks out. “Say that again, you brownnoser!” Carver demands.

 “No need to be crass.” Sherlock scolds. He may have been a year younger, but he was still the same height as the older boy, and _much_ more intelligent. “I didn’t realize you had poor hearing, I apologize. I’ll say again. He’s fucking your mum.”

 The fist is expected. Sherlock ducks. It’s one thing he’d devoted himself to this summer. Science was his passion, but fighting was necessary. He’d gotten too many black eyes and split lips the year before. It was something he was surprisingly good at. While skinnier than the rest of the boys, he was faster. Much faster. So it was easy for him to duck under the bulky, poorly thrown punch and turn up behind Carver.

 The boy stumbles, runs into a desk and takes a minute to right himself before facing Sherlock again.

 “Hey! Whoa, no fights!”

 Both boys look at the blonde boy, who—yes, he’s just leaped over a desk. _Oh_ , thinks Sherlock numbly. He puts himself between Carver and Sherlock. “Not in front of the ladies, right?” John winks off to the left and Sherlock’s head snaps to Molly, who’s giggling and red.

 “Molly’s not—”

 The boy’s gaze snaps to him, a warning. Sherlock can’t believe it, but the look actually makes him _nervous_ , so his jaw snaps shut.

 “If you want to discuss this like _adults_ I won’t be opposed to it, but as it stands, I think violence is a bad—”

 “He said Mr. Jacobs was shagging my mum, John! You’re going to make me let that slide?!”

 John turns his back to Sherlock now, hands out to catch Carver if he decides to try and barrel through John anyway. “Look, mate. It’s just a way to get under your skin, yeah? Not worth your time.”

 “You don’t get it, John.” someone else says. “Holmes is a _freak_. He’s like a psychic or something. Sees things, can tell you your whole life story.”

 John glances at Sherlock curiously, but it’s not accusing. It’s truly just _curious_. Sherlock can’t remember the last time someone’s looked at him so innocently. “Let’s not put too much stock into this.” John tries anyway.

 The blow to Sherlock’s ego is too much. He straightens and faintly he hears Molly gasp. “Not too much stock into what, exactly? My talents? Well, let’s test the theory, shall we? New student, obviously, but from where? Not London, not Cardiff. Why, if I didn’t know any better I’d say you’re from Hampshire!  Northern bit, right? Brother, sister, mother, father…alright, so you’ve got a sister and a mother. No father? Ah, I see. My condolences, I’d say, except you hated your father, so I can’t imagine you’re too heartbroken about it. And a pity about rugby, too. You had _such_ a promising career, and now you’ll be lucky to even play!”

 John narrows his eyes, and Sherlock wonders if he’s going to try and hit him too. Only he doesn’t see anger in them. Defeat, maybe, and…and something else. “Yes, alright, you’ve proven your point.” he finally says. The whole class collectively takes a breath.

 “Have I?” Sherlock doesn’t mean it to come out as confused as it does.

 “Yes, you have. Can we all leave in peace, now?”

 Carver looks between them, his eyes settling on Sherlock and narrowing. _This_ is definitely a threat, and Sherlock bristles. But Carver just moves around them to sit.

 The entire class finds their seats except for Sherlock and John and Molly. John straightens himself and nods to Sherlock. Molly’s hand rests on Sherlock’s arm, squeezes. This sets off something in him, so he rips it away and pushes around her, leaving the class entirely.

 He spends the rest of the day avoiding his classes in any way he can, mostly by dumping an array of contraband cleaning supplies into the rusty basement toilets to see if anything will happen. Eventually he wanders out to the bleachers and sits in the decent fall weather while he can, trying—and failing—to just turn everything off.

  _Holmes is a_ freak.

 He’s bouncing pebbles off bleachers when John appears. “Hey.”

 Sherlock glances at him, but doesn’t say anything.

 “I didn’t see you in any other classes today. Have you been out here the entire day?” When Sherlock still refuses to answer, John sits next to him. “That was really impressive this morning. I honestly didn’t think you could do it, but…” He shrugs. “You did. It was amazing.”

 Sherlock pauses now, then throws another one. This one’s faster and bounces off sharper, landing near their feet.

 “You don’t like me very much.”

 “I don’t like anyone.” Sherlock finally speaks.

 “I got that impression.” John stands now. “I’m not your enemy. I’m sure you’ve got enough of those.”

 Sherlock glares as he walks away.  

 ***

 The next day isn’t much better. The group is still perched around John, and they’re all giggling when Sherlock comes in. It stops abruptly, but John has none of it. “Good morning, Sherlock.” he says brightly.

 “It’s yet to be proven good or bad.” he mutters in the doorway.

 “Oomf! Oh, no!” Molly crashes into him, books flying, falling, mixing together. She drops to her knees.

 “It’s leaning towards bad.” Sherlock frowns.

 John gets up—without leaping over another desk, Sherlock pointedly does _not_ notice—and bends to help. He looks up at Sherlock expectantly, and Sherlock rolls his eyes, dropping next to them. “If you want to be liked,” John mutters. “You should be nicer.”

 Molly stops picking up her books, looks between the two with surprise.

 “I don’t want to be liked.” Sherlock answers.

 “You don’t want to be hated, either.” John observes.

 Sherlock narrows his eyes and stands with his books. John helps Molly with the last of hers, taking them from her with a smile and offering his arm. “Shall we, Ms. Hooper?”

 “Oh.” she giggles, taking it. She casts glances between him and Sherlock before letting herself be led the whole ten feet to her desk.

 After class, John waits for Sherlock by the door. Sherlock makes a face, which gets a chuckle out of him, which _really_ _doesn’t_ make Sherlock blush. “So how do you do it?” John asks.

 “Do what?”

 “The psychic thing.”

 “It’s not _psychic_.” Sherlock spits the word, getting another smile from John. His face ignores his mind and heats up more. “I just observe.”

 “Observe? Just see it on people?”

 “No. No, _people_ see. Ordinary people. _Boring_ people. I _observe_.”

 “Oh.” John blinks a few times, like the concept confuses him. Sherlock thinks it probably does. “Okay, so you just…observe anyone, then? How’d you know Mr. Jacobs was shagging Carver’s mum?”

 Sherlock’s lip twitches up now. He leaves the silence sit for so long that John thinks perhaps he won’t answer. Then “I didn’t. I made that up.”

 It’s quiet for a minute, and then John starts _giggling_. Sherlock looks at him in bewilderment. John has to stop and catch his breath after a moment, because he’s just laughing too hard. Eventually, Sherlock finds himself grinning, too, though it’s more confounded than amused. “You made it up? And he _believed_ you?” John chokes.

 “I have a good track record.” Sherlock shrugs. “I was right about you, wasn’t I?”

 “Of course you were!” John wipes his eyes, then breaks into another fit of giggles. “Made it up! Brilliant!”

 Sherlock pauses. “You really think so?”

 “Of course! I mean, it was cruel, but to be honest he deserved it for being a prat.”

 “He’s not as bad as some.”

 “There’s worse?”

 “Have you met Anderson yet?”

 Anderson, John discovers, is in fact worse. He’s an older boy—two years older—and he’s dating one of the girl’s in their grade. A beautiful girl with a bad attitude. And Anderson? Well, as Sherlock so eloquently put it, Anderson’s an idiot.

 “He truly believed his sister was practicing German. He’ll probably never believe me, but I told him it wasn’t foreign language practice, but his sister writing the name of her girlfriend _Rachel_.”

 “Brilliant. How do you know this? Color of her ink? Way she holds the pen?” John teases.

 “Sometimes, John, the simple things are the easiest. I found them snogging in the basement lavatory  few months ago.  Wasn’t a difficult leap.”

 “Amazing.” John chuckles. They’re sitting behind the bleachers. Rugby’s going on on the other side, and John has missed it. But he likes this. He likes sitting here with Sherlock. Nearly a month into his new school, and things are going well. There are no fights—though Sherlock refuses to hang around the other kids, and therefore generally John during school hours. Even so, he considers Sherlock his friend. His best friend, he supposes.

 “Are you always going to say that out loud?” Sherlock wonders.

 John blushes before remembering what he’d last said. “Oh, sorry. I don’t even notice, I guess.”

 “No. It’s…fine.” John thinks he sees Sherlock blush, too, but he can’t be sure.

 John picks up a rock next to him and chucks it. It rings off the metal bleachers.

 “Why do you spend time with me?” Sherlock wonders.

 John looks at him, but Sherlock’s not paying attention to him. He seems intently focused on the bleachers. John turns back around. “You’re smart. I like smart people. They’re much funnier than stupid ones.”

 “You spend time with the others.” Sherlock notes.

 “Not as much as I do with you. I’d spend _more_ if you weren’t so damn reclusive.”

 Sherlock glances at him. “It’s much like a quarantine, John. I separate to prevent myself from catching their idiocy.”

 John snorts. “Then why do _you_ hang around _me?_ ”

 Sherlock’s quiet. John’s not sure he’s ever heard him be so quiet. The blonde looks over, grinning. Sherlock’s not quite so amused. He’s still glaring at the bleachers. “I suppose it’s because you don’t mind.” Sherlock finally says, shrugging, his face falling impassive again.

 John chuckles, picking up and tossing another rock. _Clang_. “What about Molly?”

 “She’s annoying, but a necessary evil. Has three cats, though she favors one in particular—Toby—and is absolutely obsessed with me.”

  _Clang_. “That’s not what I meant, but thanks.”

 “What did you mean?”

 “Do you like her?”

 “I just made it clear I don’t.”

 John rolls the next pebble between his fingers. “Why is she a necessary evil?”

 “She’s my mother’s friend’s daughter. We’ve known each other our whole lives, which is why she’s in love with me and I am not with her. It’s been a point of discontentment for my mother for ages.”

 John smirks. “You could give her a chance, you know. She’s a nice girl.”

 “Precisely why I can’t.” Sherlock sniffs. Then it clicks and he looks at John. “She said something to you.”

 John glances up. “Maybe.”

 “Don’t let her naivety fool you, John. She’s manipulative.”

 John laughs now. “Molly’s not manipulative, Sherlock. She’s desperate. Not…not like that.” he hurries. Sherlock doesn’t seem to care. “It’s just…she really likes you, you know? And you drag her along. It’s painful to watch, not just to hear about.”

 “I don’t drag her along.”

 “You made her give up her dissection frog for you. She would’ve failed if I hadn’t said she was queasy and needed me as a partner.”

 “She didn’t have to do that.” Sherlock mutters.

 “But she wanted to. You batted your eyelashes—quite literally, I might add—and had her fumbling to get it to you. It’s ridiculous.”

 “She’s stronger than she looks.” Sherlock insists. “If she wanted, she could resist me.”

 “But she doesn’t want to, and you know it. You shouldn’t exploit it.”

 “Why does it matter? Why does it bother you?” Sherlock demands.

 John throws the rock now. _Clang_. “She’s a nice girl, Sherlock.”

 “You don’t _like_ her, do you?” Sherlock practically spits.

 John turns now, frowning. “No. But if I did, what would you do about it?” Sherlock’s eyes widen, so John just faces the bleachers again. “I don’t want her to get hurt. And I don’t want you to be responsible for it.”

 Sherlock looks at his shoes. “That’s quite noble of you.” he mutters.

 “Just call me Sir John.” The older elbows the younger, getting him to look up. They both grin weakly.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Looky looky! Second bit! Thanks for supporting this :) If you have any title suggestions or notice any errors, pleeeasse let me know!

 “Look.”

 John looks up, dazed. Sherlock’s holding out a folded sheet of paper and nearly bouncing with excitement. “What’s that?” he whispers. They’re supposed to be studying, but anyone who told Sherlock Holmes he needed to study was going to get a long, drawn out lecture. So while Sherlock might’ve been free to thrust papers in people’s faces, John had to keep quiet.

 Sherlock rolls his eyes, but it’s just for show. “It’s a note, John.”

 “I see that.” John retorts, snatching it. “What’s it about?”

 “You’re supposed to read it. That’s the purpose of the note.” Sherlock sits across from him, dropping his books loudly. John flinches, glances around. Several students are glaring at them. It was nearly the end of the semester, and that meant finals. Everyone was cramming for the end of the end-of-term-tests and the end-of-semester test and any other kind of test. Sherlock barging in and being loud did no one any good.

 In the couple of months they’d known each other, they’d become inseparable. John eventually stopped hanging around most of the other kids because they didn’t approve of his friendship with Sherlock, which while he didn’t agree with, he understood. Sherlock was intolerable most days. He was whiny, and needy, and often went through ugly bouts of rage for no particular reason. Still, he had moments of absolute brilliance and light, where he’d smile at John and make every hellish thing he’d done before obsolete.

 John unfolds Sherlock’s note with a sigh. “Where were you in Chem? Nearly burnt off my eyebrows without you.”

 “I’m glad you didn’t. Can’t imagine how hideous you’d be without them.”

 John glares before reading. He straightens. “Where’d you get this?”

 “Found it. Well, it found me. It was in the basement lavatory.”

 John sets the page down between them warily. “Someone knows you’re down there?”

 “I imagine everyone knows I’m down there, though few care. And even fewer dare to venture down there to find me.”

 “What do we do?”

 “What do you mean?”

 “Sherlock, this is… _weird._ I’m pretty sure you’re being stalked.”

 Sherlock’s eyes light up. “You believe so?”

 John looks incredulously at the slip of paper.

  _Hello, dear! Dying to meet me? You will be. See you soon!_ _J Love, JM_

 The paper had a lip print on it, pressed neatly in pink like John had only seen in movies. It made him unbearably uncomfortable, and seeing Sherlock’s excitement over it wasn’t helping. John looks at him flatly. “Right. So, now what? We check out all the JMs in school?”

 “No. We wait. He or she will do something to attract my attention. That’s when the game begins.” He props his feet on the table, barely missing John’s homework.

 “I don’t know if I like this game.”

 Sherlock only grins.

 John’s known Sherlock nearly three months now. He’s seen different sides of him. He’d seen Annoyed Sherlock, Indignant Sherlock, Peacock Sherlock, even Content Sherlock. He’d never seen Sherlock excited, though. This was obviously Excited Sherlock. John sighs, looking back down to his paper.

 “Come to my house tonight.”

 John peaks up, sees Sherlock still grinning, looking a lot like Peacock Sherlock. He can’t help but smirk back even has he continues working. “Finally assured I’m not going to try and rob you?”

 “My mother’s out of town this weekend.”

 “That sounds like a come on.”

 “Does it?”

 John looks up, see’s the grin and quickly looks back down. Sherlock knew _exactly_ what he sounded like, and it drove John nuts when he did this. Whenever John was upset with him, or trying to berate him, or even just ignoring him, Sherlock would pull out this flirtatious cocky side. It made the rumors nearly unbearable, but worse than that it flustered John enough to throw the entire conversation off.

 “Come to my house.” Sherlock repeats.

 “If you stop looking at me like that, I will.”

 “Like what?” He frowns.

 “Like _that_.” John hisses, leaning forward. “Like you’re going to _shag_ me.”

 “Oh?” Sherlock smirks again. “Why?”

 “W-why? _Why?_ ”

 Sherlock smiles again, dropping his feet and standing. “Meet me by the bleachers. We’ll leave from there.”

***

 “You can’t keep flirting with me, Sherlock. People will talk.” John greets him that afternoon,

 “People do little else.” Sherlock grabs John’s tie, tugging him forward. “Besides, why does it matter if they know?”

 John braces his hands on the bricks, only just noticing the cold. Before, he might’ve glanced around to make sure no one was watching. The more they were together, the more he didn’t particularly care if others saw. But…”My mum would be furious, Sherlock.”

 “Because you’re dating a man or because you’re dating me?”

 John kisses him, or tries to, but Sherlock doesn’t kiss him back. John sighs, breath fogging around them. “It doesn’t particularly matter, because if I’m dating a man, I’ll be dating you. And vice-versa. They’re one in the same.”

 “I’m not the only male in the world, John.”

 “No, but you’re the only male for me.”

 Sherlock huffs, but when John kisses him again he doesn’t resist. He pulls back slowly, waiting to see the look on the detective’s face. It’s a little more relaxed, but still a bit put off, so John leans in and bites playfully on his lower lip. “Did you mean it?”

 “Mean what?” Sherlock asks on a sigh that isn’t as irritated as it could’ve been. John moves closer, so he has to crane his neck up to meet Sherlock’s eyes. He doesn’t particularly mind, though. He thought he would at first, but kissing Sherlock was well worth it.

 “You’re mum being gone this weekend?”

 “Yes.”

 “I could stay all weekend, you know. Pack some clothes. Just us two.”

 “And Mycroft.”

 John pulls back now. “Your what?”

 “Not ‘my croft’. _Mycroft_. My brother.” Sherlock makes a face, scrunching his nose and glaring at John like it was his fault he had a brother. John can’t help but smile at it.

 “I didn’t know you had a brother.”

 “Probably because I didn’t want you to.”

 “So I don’t get to get you out of these quite yet?” John teases, pulling at Sherlock’s tie.

 “That sounds like a come on.”

 

 Sherlock’s house was very big, but—having grown up in it—Sherlock knew every nook and cranny. He knew where to hide so Mycroft couldn’t find him. He knew where his mother hid her cigarettes. He knew the back entrances and the side entrances and the entrances that _shouldn’t_ be entrances, but worked as entrances anyway.

 John, however, insisted that climbing a tree was much too dangerous when it was as cold as it was. Something about frostbite and grip—Sherlock really hadn’t paid attention. So instead they’d gone through the front door. Terribly dull, and a guaranteed way to run into his brother.

 Mycroft seems a little surprised to see them. Not because they were there, but because they were _there_ , in the doorway, and not already upstairs. “Sherlock. You’re home.”

 “Yes. This is John. Goodbye.”

 “Wait, Sherlock!” John complains.

 “John Watson.” Mycroft says, shutting his book. “Yes, hello. Sherlock’s spoke of you.” Not a complete lie. Sherlock had mentioned he was spending his time in good company when Mummy had finally cornered him about it. “New from Northern Hampshire, yes?” Sherlock hadn’t mentioned that. Mycroft had _noticed_ that. Or researched it, like his name.

 “Ah, yeah. Yeah, a few months ago now.” John says.

 “I see. Doing well in your classes.”

 It wasn’t a question. John treats it as one anyway. “Yes. Yes, I am. Sherlock’s helped me with Chemistry.”

 Mycroft’s eyebrow goes up. Sherlock feels John shift uncomfortably.  “Well, I suppose I should leave you to it then.”

 Sherlock takes John’s arm and hauls him up two flights of stairs and a ladder, right into the roof of the house. The attic is Sherlock’s favorite place. The amount of boxes in the space made it a perfect fort as a child, and they’d been rearranged as Sherlock had gotten older. All the pillows and blankets Sherlock could find—or at least could be smuggled—were laid out on top of each other in a bed-like pile. Two boxes tipped on their side were used as bookshelves. Several others had beakers or questionable Petri dishes on them. Sherlock pulls up the ladder, letting John take it in. His feet hit all the boards Sherlock had learned to avoid, causing the house to creak. “Wow.” John mumbles. “This is…wow.”

 “Careful. Certain boards creak. You don’t want to alert Mycroft we’re up here. He’ll have a fit.” Sherlock says, avoiding said boards and collapsing on the bed.

 “Probably be more upset about what you’re growing.” John chuckles, looking at one of his experiments. He looks at Sherlock. “How long have you had this?”

 “Few weeks. Needed to see what kind of mold grew on chicken within a month’s time.”

 “I mean how long have you hidden up here?” Sherlock blushes a little. John smirks and joins him, laying on his stomach, folding his arms under his head. He hums. “This is really comfortable.”

 “It’s warm in the summer. It’ll get cold soon. When the snow sticks and the sun sets, it’s almost unbearable.” Sherlock pulls one of the blankets over them, reveling in the heat John radiated.

 They fall into a comfortable silence. In fact, John falls asleep, but Sherlock doesn’t mind. It gives him time to take him in. John’s face, soft and kind, a perfect complexion to match the golden hair on his head. Sherlock hesitantly reaches over and runs his fingers through it. John makes a content noise, so Sherlock continues more confidently.

 It had been unexpected, their first kiss. He closes his eyes and calls it to the forefront of his mind to relish in it, as he’d done every night since it had happened a few weeks ago. Sherlock had been on a rant about something, and John had made a joke, and the fight had started.

  _“Sherlock, I was kidding!”_

 _“Why does everything have to be a joke? Are you_ that _stupid?”_

_“I’m sor—”_

_“No you aren’t! Don’t lie to me! I’m smarter than any of you idiots, and that’s the problem! I won’t have you bring me down! I won’t let you!”_

_“I’m not trying to bring you down, Sherlock!”_

_“Then leave me alone!”_

_“No!”_

_“Why not?!”_

 And then John had kissed him. It was _his_ first, though he hadn’t told John. Maybe he knew. It didn’t really matter, because there were many kisses after it. Pressed against the bricks, laying in the grass, from above, from below, but always in secret. Always just between them.

 Sherlock didn’t really mind. Not really. It’s not like John ignored him during the day. He simply didn’t hold his hand, or kiss his cheek. And really, Sherlock would’ve left long ago if that was the case. But sometimes he wished John would at least flirt back. Flustering him was fun; being shut down was not.

 John lets out a sigh when Sherlock pulls lightly on his hair.  Sherlock opens his eyes to take John in. He can’t help the swell of pride and adoration at his face. Everyone took a second look when he walked in a room, because he was so whole and good and gorgeous. Sherlock tried not to look, but he always failed. He’d tried more than once to mark him, too, to show everyone that John was owned, but John hadn’t let him. He didn’t want to have to explain, and when Sherlock had told him to lie, John had flipped, slamming Sherlock against the wall, wrists trapped, knuckles scraping ever-so-slightly. _“I will never lie about you, Sherlock. If people don’t know it’s you, they don’t know at all.”_

 He could do it now. Just lean in and kiss lightly, getting more heated until he could pin John down and just suck. John would hate him for it, be angry, but that purple bruise would be a reminder. He’d get over it, wouldn’t he? Just one…

 “Sherlock?” John mumbles sleepily.

 “Hmm?” Sherlock’s eyes snap up to John’s, which are still closed.

 “You’re thinking.”

 “I’m always thinking.”

 “You’re thinking especially hard.”

 “Oh?”

 “You’re humming.”

 Sherlock cards his fingers through John’s hair, getting a purr. “Do you want to know what I’m thinking about?”

 “Mmhmm.”

 “I want to mark you.”

 John opens his eyes now, glossy but alert. “I told you no.”

 “I know.”

 “So why bring it up?”

 “It’s what I’m thinking about.”

 “But why?”

  _Because I’m a jealous bastard_ , Sherlock thinks. “Why do I think about anything?”

 “Because you’re an overanalyzing genius prat.”

 Sherlock smirks. “Maybe.”

 “You really want to?”

 Sherlock’s smirk falls, knows it’s replaced by something darker. “Yes.”

 John sits up now, causing Sherlock’s hand to drop to his side. He rolls the brunette over, straddling him. “Fine. But it’s got to be where no one can see. No one but us.”

 “Where?”

 John expertly undoes his tie, whipping it out with a flourish. “Waist up, collar down, arms included.” he says, starting on his buttons. Sherlock props himself up, watching each button come undone, opening the shirt ever so slightly until he can see John’s undershirt. He pulls the button-down off, tossing it on the dusty floor. The tank-top is a little more gray than white, but Sherlock can’t bring himself to care because he can see John’s arms, toned and fit and perfect. John starts to shrug that off too, but Sherlock stops him, sits up to pull them chest to chest. “You’re gorgeous.” Sherlock murmurs, pulling his chin down to kiss him. “Every inch of you.”

 “You haven’t seen every inch of me.” John argues lamely. “I could be harboring an unborn twin on my back.”

 “Are you?”

 “I don’t think so.”

 “Then we’re fine.” Sherlock kisses him again, a little longer, a little slower. He turns and kisses John’s neck lightly, savoring the day he can litter it with bites and kisses and show everyone that John Watson was _his_. Instead, he strips the tank top anxiously, leaning into John’s left shoulder. His lips brush something unusual, and he pulls back.

 “Ah…yeah. That rugby-ending injury.”

 Sherlock’s fingers brush over it automatically, cataloguing the torn up skin. “This is deep.” Sherlock notes. “Like…it went through?”

 “Sherlock—”

 “He did this, didn’t he? Your father.” Sherlock looks up now, his eyes surprisingly cold. John sighs, putting his hand over Sherlock’s before leaning down to kiss him. Sherlock pulls back. “Here. It’s going to be here.”

 “Sherlock, I don’t know if it would show up.

 “I want to make this better, John.”

 “It’s a scar, Sherlock.”

 “I want you to remember this. Me. Not him.”

 John’s face softens. He gives a little sigh, then rolls his eyes dramatically. “Well, go on then.”

 So Sherlock turns his attention to the shiny skin, tracing over first with his eyes, then with his lips, then his tongue. John runs his fingers through his hair and watches, making little purring sounds when he slides over the edge and hits his nerves. Then Sherlock does something unexpected.

 He bites.

 John hisses, his hands knotting in Sherlock’s hair. “Ah…Sherlock, that hurts!”

 “I’m sorry.” he mumbles as he releases for a moment. “Deep breaths.”

 “I _can’t_ breathe, you’ve just _punctured_ my lung. Don’t…don’t bite so hard. Try sucking.”

 Sherlock considers, then bends and sucks, lightly at first, then harder. John shivers, watches him. The whole process takes a few minutes, with Sherlock peppering smaller marks around his main goal before returning. When he finishes, he pulls back and eyes the raw, pink skin. He leans in, presumably to work some more, but instead John feels teeth. Just the brush of them, and a hint of tongue.

The resulting broken moan zings up Sherlock’s spine, so he hikes John against him. He pulls back and looks up at John, who’s head is laid back with his eyes closed. Sherlock looks back down and traces his fingers over it, smiling. “There.”

 “That feels…odd. Did you break skin?”

 “No. Not quite.” Sherlock mumbles. He looks up with a smile. “Would you like me to?”

 “No.” John looks down at him, smirks.

 The red’s darkening now, spreading out. “Thank you.”

 “God forbid someone touches my shoulder.”

 “Mmm. I like that. Any time someone touches your shoulder you’ll remember. Any time _I_ touch your shoulder…” Sherlock leans forward and presses his lips to the spot. John sucks in a sharp breath, but he presses closer. “What do you think, John?”

 “I think this was a dangerous idea.”

 “Oh, I agree.”

 John looks down, meets his eyes, and both smile. Sherlock pulls him down and kisses him, running his tongue through John’s mouth expertly. John was the only person he’d ever kissed. It gave him the unique advantage in that he wasn’t distracted by what he thought he knew about kissing. He knew nothing about kissing anyone, except for John. He knew _exactly_ how to kiss John.

 “Mm…Sherlock…Sherlock!” John pulls back quickly, face red. “We’ve got to slow down.”

 “No.” Sherlock whines, trying to pull him back in.

 John moans, pushing back. “Sherlock, _please_. Oh, god…”

 “I know. I can feel you.” Sherlock breathes.

 “ _Jesus_.”

 “Do you think I could make you come? Just by kissing you?”

 John huffs a laugh. “The only thing I’m think is that you’re over-dressed.”

 Sherlock grins, letting John push him back. John had a way of just turning his mind off. He does so now, lips running across Sherlock’s jumping pulse and up to his ear, whispering words Sherlock can’t make out but doesn’t really care to.

 “So much for slowing down.” John chuckles.

 Sherlock looks at him, sees his flushed face, the bruise blooming over his shoulder.  “I think you’re right about one thing.” he decides, pushing them back up.  “I’m over-dressed.”

 John watches, entranced, as Sherlock undoes his tie and each button, slowly. He never wears an undershirt, and Sherlock applauds this choice now, watching John come undone as he shrugs it off. They sit silent except for John’s heavy breathing for awhile. Sherlock’s red, his skin is hot, and John’s looking him over like he’s some sort of novelty.

 “Why me?” John suddenly asks.

 Sherlock blinks, frowns. “What do you mean?”

 “Why me? Why am I here? Why not someone else?”

 Sherlock’s quite for a long time before he leans forward and kisses John, must softer, much less demanding. They’re chest to chest, can feel each other’s heartbeat, and it _hurts._ John pulls him closer, closer…even when there’s nowhere to go. They lay there, and neither knows why they feel so suddenly impossibly desperate not to let go.

 And they don’t let go. John pushes him down, kisses him hard, deep, breathes sharply when Sherlock digs his nails into his hips and rises up. Sherlock breaks the kiss to moan when John pushes back down, grinding hard against him.

 It becomes a contest. Sherlock pushes up, John back down harder, harder, harder until Sherlock can’t see straight. Back and forth, a constant rhythm. They give up kissing at some point, or at least Sherlock does, but John keeps trying to kiss his neck, or jaw, or anything. His hands move to his hips, fingertips digging in.

 It’s too sudden for him to stop. He wants to keep going, keep the back-and-forth friction of John pushing him down and him pushing John up, but suddenly he’s there, and he’s seeing stars. He tries to shoot up, but John’s on top of him, so his back just bends, arches to a breaking point, and Sherlock hears some sort of desperate noise coming from somewhere he thinks might be him.

 John keeps pushing, saying something. He can’t tell what. He doesn’t particularly care, because he suddenly collapses, brain fuzzy and blank. This is one of the reasons he liked John. He could kiss him, hold him down and just make everything in his mind go away. Just for a little bit. And he’s doing that now, whispering in Sherlock’s ear, lacing their fingers together and dragging his arms above his head. John suddenly let’s out a much more controlled groan, shuddering violently. Sherlock squeezes his fingers, turns his head to kiss him and cants his hips up once more.

 They lay there, together, John on top of Sherlock, for quite awhile. Sherlock finally comes around, notices he’s sticky but wonders if he actually cares. He notices John’s kissing his neck, tongue licking at what he thinks must be sweat. He shivers. “I thought we were slowing down.” Sherlock says, trying to sound sarcastic but just too satisfied to pull it off.

 John smirks, sucks lightly. “Oops.”

 Sherlock swallows which makes John growl ever-so-slightly. And then he closes his eyes and says “You’re my first.”

 John stops at this, lips still at Sherlock’s neck. He’s completely frozen. He’s not even breathing. Then he takes a deep breath and rolls over onto his back, leaving them both to stare at the ceiling. “You’re first?”

 “Yes.”

 “F-first…sexual experience?”

 “First kiss. First orgasm…first friend, really.”

 “Oh.”

 “Are you mad?”

 “No. No, of course not. I’m…surprised.”

 “Surprised?”

 “You’re so beautiful.”

 Sherlock closes his eyes, feels the blush creep up his neck. “But intolerable.”

 “That’s true.”

 Sherlock looks at him sharply, but there’s a lazy grin on John’s face. One that says _it’s all fine_. He turns back to the ceiling. “You asked why you.”

 “Yeah?”

 “I suppose it’s because you don’t mind.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This installments a bit sad. It's got homophobia and violence, so if you're bothered by that, I advise you to not read any further.  
> As always, anything you notice let me know. Also, titles, if you guys think I should have a different one.

 “I’ll make you a deal.”

 Sherlock doesn’t look up from the microscope. He skips lunch most days to make use of the biology lab, and John often joins him after he’s eaten, often with leftovers to try and push down Sherlock’s throat. It’s been this way for months, five of them now. Sometimes John has to skip lunch just to make it. “What deal?” Sherlock asks, clearly not caring.

 “Go to the dance with me.”

 Sherlock snorts, but it seems John’s got more of his attention than before.

 John smirks. “You haven’t heard the entire deal.”

 “Doesn’t matter. The answer’s no.” Sherlock mutters, turning towards his notebook and scribbling something.

 “If you go to the dance with me, I’ll come out.”

 Sherlock’s pencil hesitates, but it’s only for a second. “I’m not forcing you to come out. You can do it of your own volition.” he says, but it sounds uneasy.

 “That’s not all I’ll do.”

 “Oh?”

 “I’ll come out, to my mom, to the school…and I’ll suck you off.”

 Sherlock raises his eyes now. “Excuse me?”

 “Or you can suck me off, but you’ve got to go to the dance, or you have to wait.” John had thought this through considerably. Sherlock hadn’t gotten bored with what they were doing, and really, neither had he. It was wonderful, the lazy days spent in Sherlock’s attic. He had thought a few times of moving on, even left hickeys on Sherlock’s stomach, but one or the other had backed off before. He was ready now, he was sure of it. And Sherlock seemed plenty ready, too, but just in case… “And if that isn’t enough incentive, I’ll let you mark me up.”

 Now Sherlock’s eyes went completely dark. “Oh.”

 “See? Bonuses all around. So go with me.”

 “When?”

 “The dance is Friday. That’s three days to get a good suit for both of us.”

 “I mean when will you come out?”

 “At the dance, of course. Before, to my mum. Probably say something to Molly.”

 “So I have to wait until Friday?”

 “I’ve got to prepare myself, so yeah. Is that a yes?”

 Sherlock taps his fingers on the lab table, considering. “Fine. I’ll go to the dance.”

 John leans forward, kisses his cheek. “I knew you were a sap at heart.”

 “Being bribed with sex and my particular set of kinks doesn’t make me a ‘sap.’” Sherlock frowns, looking back into the microscope.

 “Sure it does. A horny sap.”

 “You’re an idiot.”

 “A horny idiot.”

***

 John’s _nervous,_ of all things, when Friday rolls around. He’s tried tying his tie four times. His mother’s been quiet since he came home three days ago, sitting her down and saying, very calmly, that he liked men. Well, one man. Sherlock. She hadn’t been upset, per say. She was still processing, John thought. Which is why she was in her room now, probably reading a book on how to deal with a gay child. Or drinking.

 Sherlock is coming for him at any moment. He’d called, sounding aggravated and nervous—similar things for Sherlock—and John has yet to finish tying his blasted tie. He glares at himself in the mirror for his incompetence with the bloody thing. It was one Sherlock had bought to match his. John’s suit is a warm gray, Sherlock would supposedly be in all black, and their only matching pieces were the ties. And he couldn’t even tie it right.

 The doorbell rings. John curses and haphazardly tied the blasted thing before heading downstairs where Harry’s popping gum in front of the door. Sherlock looks over her, sees John, and smirks. It was one of those smirks that told John Sherlock was amused with him. He knew it was the tie.

 “Don’t say it.” John mutters, stalking down the stairs. “I haven’t had to wear a tie since my granddad’s funeral.”

 “You didn’t tell me he was hot.” Harry teases, winking at Sherlock and popping her gum.

 “Probably because we’re gay.” Sherlock deadpans.

 She blinks a few times, then breaks into a smile. “I like him.” She declares, leaving the room. Sherlock steps in, reaches out and undoes John’s tie. “Little early for that.” John says breathlessly.

 “I’m fixing it.” Sherlock explains needlessly, tying it expertly. He looks gorgeous, with his black suit and hair, and the purple tie that somehow managed to look better on him than John. He glances up, meets John’s eyes. “Are you nervous?”

 “You know I am.”

 “Practicing courtesy. If you had said no, I wouldn’t have pushed it.”

 “I appreciate that, but don’t flatter me. We know each other too well.”

 “In that case, you should take three deep breathes and then chew this.”

 John frowns at the gum. “That’s just rude.”

 “Chewing gum helps keep people from shaking.” Sherlock says, smirking. “Gives you something to do when you’re anxious.”

 “Oh.” John takes the three breaths, and the piece of gum, then sighs. Sherlock’s still watching him. He’s right, of course. It makes him feel loads better. Sherlock then straightens and clears his throat. “I, ah…I know that generally there’s flowers with this sort of thing, but I’m not the kind to get flowers, and you’re not the kind to take them, so I got this instead.”

 John looks down at tiny purple flower in Sherlock’s hand. He notices now he’s got one buttoned on his lapel and smirks. “I thought you said you don’t get flowers?”

 “It’s a pin, and it’s a poison, so I’ll make an exception.”

 “Poison? You’re giving me _poison?_ ”

 “My favorite kind.” Sherlock agrees, pinning it on. “ _Atropa belladonna_.”

 “I think I’m flattered.”

 “Johnny? Is he…oh. Oh. Hello.”

 Both boys look up the stairs at the woman there. She’s got John’s hair and eyes and face. She looks nervous, too. Still, even with being nearly identical to John, there was something…not right. Obviously she drank, but there was something more than that. “Mrs. Watson.” Sherlock nods.

 “Hello. You’re Sherlock. Hi. Oh, I wasn’t…oh.” she smoothes her hands over her jeans. “Are you two off, then?”

 “Yeah.” John says softly. “Yeah. I might stay over, but if not I’ll be coming in about two.”

 “Oh. Alright. Are you…do you drive, Sherlock?”

 “My brother’s driving us.” Sherlock says. “Mycroft.”

 “Mycroft.” she repeats. “Alright. Um…right. You’ve got everything?”

 “Yeah, mum.” John says. “See you tomorrow morning, alright?”

 “Alright.”

 Sherlock didn’t really lie. Mycroft’s car would be driving them around, though Mycroft himself wouldn’t be joining them. It had been a compromise. They get in the car silently, sit close together. About halfway there, nerves get the better of him and he grips Sherlock’s hand. “We don’t have to do this.”

 “Backing out on me?” Sherlock teases, though he’s rubbing circles over John’s knuckles.

 “I’ll keep up my end. I just…I’ve never been this nervous before.”

 Sherlock looks at their hands in the dark, yellow lights slanting over them every couple of seconds. “When I told you you were my first, how did you feel?”

 “Like I’d just ruined a masterpiece.”

 “Seriously.”

 John smirks, looks over at him. “Like I was the luckiest guy in the world.”

 “So how do you think I feel being able to go out with you? To be able to hold your hand and dance with you?”

 “Tricked. Manipulated. Pressured.”

 “And lucky.”

 “Yeah?”

 “Yes. I’ve waited months for you to allow me this simple little pleasure.” He lifts John’s hand, waves it around. “I won’t let you take it away from me.”

 “Okay. But you have to make me a promise.”

 “Another one?”

 “Yes.”

 “What?”

 “Don’t let go.”

 Sherlock doesn’t let go. John does. They enter the dance without issue, meet up with Molly, and spend most of the dance absolutely fine. But then John has to go to the bathroom, so he let’s go. That’s his mistake.

 Carver Collins walks in a few moments later, while John’s washing his hands. John wouldn’t have even noticed except Carver pushes him into the sink and gets water all over his suit, effectively ruining it. After the shock wears off, John turns to Carver’s retreating back. “Oi, mate!”

 Carver turns, looking bored and innocent. John’s anger flares. “You got a problem?”

 “Matter of fact,” Carver says, turning fully. “I do. You and your freak.”

 “We’re just an entitled to be here as you.” John grinds out.

 “He’s a bad influence, and I don’t need your sick faggot tendencies rubbing off.”

 “Excuse me?”

 “You heard me, _faggot_.”

 John’s fist swings. Carver catches him and slams him into the wall, arm twisted behind his back. John feels his nose crack and yelps, gritting his teeth when Carver swipes his face across the tile. “You’re both disgusting. Do yourself a favor, John. End this while you can.”

 “Fuck off!”

 Carver pulls him back only to slam him into the wall again before letting him drop to the floor this time. “You’re as much of a freak as he is! You’re _unnatural!_ ”

 The door slams open, nearly breaking the tile with its force. John can’t see—his vision’s blurred and turning black in the corners—but he can hear Sherlock snarl and slam Carver into the very wall he’d just confronted. Carver starts snarling. “Get off me, you fag freak!”

 John hears Carver yelp a few times, occasionally a light cracking sound. He’s completely closed his eyes at this point, but when someone grabs onto him they fly right open, and as much as he can, he focuses on Sherlock. “John? John, look at me.”

 “Where is he?”

 “Let’s go, come on.”

 Sherlock hefts him onto his feet, supporting him best he could, and they sneak out. They don’t need word of this getting out any more than Carver does. The trip to the emergency room is torture for Sherlock, because when they set John’s nose he screams, and the sound rips at his insides.

Once they’re back at Sherlock’s, he brings ice up to the attic, pressing a towel of it to the swollen lump on John’s face. John lays there, hissing when he put on too much pressure or if he laughed too much. He did the latter quite a bit.

 “Eight times?”

 “One in the nose, six in the ribs, one across the jaw.” Sherlock confirms softly.

 “Mm, I knew I loved you for some reason.”

 Sherlock pauses, and John hisses as he presses too hard. “Love me?”

 John tenses. “Oh. I said that out loud.”

 “Do you mean it?”

 “Do you want me to?”

 Sherlock hesitates, then pulls the ice off and kisses him, one quick one, tasting copper before John moans unhappily.  He puts the ice back down carefully. “I think you would’ve liked Carver’s face.” Sherlock continues.

 “You think?” John smirks.

 “I’ll forever remember the moment I landed the first punch. His expression was priceless.”

***

 John keeps a hold on Sherlock’s hand the following Monday. They look as they always do, except they’ve got their hands tucked safely between them, visible but discrete. No one bothers them, thank god, but John’s not sure if it’s because of his mangled face, a true lack of caring, or Sherlock’s death stare.

 Nothing had changed, only now John could hold his hand and not worry about people noticing. He could watch him without having to make excuses. And Sherlock could give John hickeys, which is why Molly turns red when she sees them.

 “Oh. Hello. John, you’ve um…you’re…” She scratches at her own throat.

 John blushes, glaring at Sherlock who’s sat in the seat next to him, leaving John the buffer between him and Molly. The prat’s lip twitches upwards, and John rolls his eyes. “Yeah, I know.”

 “It was part of the deal.” Sherlock explains easily.

 “Deal?” Molly asks, still eyeing John’s neck.

 John’s blush couldn’t get any redder. “He went to the dance with me, and I came out. Since then, he’s been allowed to, um…well, you get the idea.”

 “Oh. I see.”

 “You’re not mad, are you? That I didn’t tell you?” John asks.

 “Of course not! No, no, I’m not mad. I’m happy for you two! I’m glad you’ve found someone!”

 Sherlock suddenly stiffens at John’s side. Carver’s limped into the room, looking much worse than John. Sherlock stands quickly, eyes cold and trained on Carver, who bares his teeth in an ugly impression of a smile. John stands more slowly, feeling a lot like a lion tamer entering the cage.

 “I thought I made it clear. You two _freaks_ are welcome here.” Carver spits.

 Sherlock bristles, but John grabs his arm. “Leave it alone, Carver” he says before Sherlock can do anything.

 Carver snorts. “Now I get it. You’re not _into_ pussy, because you _are_ one.”

 John pushes his desk out of the way to step forward. Carver, to John’s delight, takes a stumbling step backwards. “You were saying?”

Carver scowls. “You’re both sick.”

 “As compared to you?”

 Both look at Sherlock. John turns back just in time to catch Carver paling ever-so-slightly. “Excuse me?” It’s a warning, not a question.

 “Don’t make me say it.” Sherlock sighs, though everyone knows he wants to. He might’ve anyway if John hadn’t reached over squeezed his hand.

 “Say what?” Carver demands. “You don’t know anything about me!”

 “Don’t flatter yourself, Collins.” Sherlock pushes around John, almost slipping out of reach as he shoves himself in Carver’s face. “You’re disgusting. You _repel_ me. I _know_ what you are, and I’ll tell everyone if you say another word.”

 “Sherlock, stop.”

 “I will _win_.” Sherlock spits, ignoring John. “Any fight you pick with me, any fight you pick with _John_ , I will _win_. And you will be _broken_ , and I can promise you I won’t lose _any_ sleep over it.”

 John thinks maybe that’s it. Maybe Sherlock’s made his point and they can sit in peace. Carver is deep red, in embarrassment John assumes. John gets Sherlock coaxed back, just barely lets his fingers slip free when he’s turned around with a push and shoved straight back, where he stumbles and cracks his head on a desk.

 Molly’s first to react with a shriek. She collapses next to John, fussing over him though, really, he was fine. Pretty soon the whole class is up in arms, shouting and cheering and gasping in horror. The two look and find Sherlock and Carver in the thick of a fight, with Sherlock obviously winning. Carver’s bleeding, and Sherlock looks no worse for wear but for a few cuts and bruises on his knuckles. Then Carver gets a hold on him and flips him. John counts two hits before Sherlock wrestles him into a headlock.

 John’s senses come back to him fast enough, and he breaks through the circle of students. When he’s through, he sees Carver gasping with feet kicking uselessly at the floor. Sherlock’s hissing something, but John doesn’t hear what as he pries him off. He’s got to pin his arms behind him to get him to let go, and even then he’s wild, pulling blindly, teeth bared like some kind of wolf. “YOU DON’T TOUCH HIM! You touch him again and I’ll _kill you!_ ”

 “What the hell is going on!” Mr. Jacob roars. Sherlock doesn’t jump like anyone else. Instead, he takes advantage and pushes John off. Only John get’s a hold on his waist, holding him tight and pressing his cheek into Sherlock’s shoulder blades. This seems to work, because Sherlock stops moving. He’s shaking though, vibrating with anger. “Touch him again,” he repeats, slower. “I will kill you with my _bare_ _hands_.”

 “MR. HOLMES, TO THE OFFICE!” Mr. Jacob orders.

 Sherlock twists in John’s arms to look down at him. Mr. Jacob keeps yelling, but they’re ignoring him. Sherlock’s eyes go from frenzied to concerned. He reaches down and runs his thumb over the blonde’s cheek. John hasn’t even noticed he’d been crying. He thinks maybe it was getting punched in the stomach that did it. Having enough of being ignored, Mr. Jacob comes in and snags Sherlock by the collar, yanking hard enough to break John’s grasp.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can't think of any triggers in this one? Except for smut, so...don't read if you don't want smut, I guess.  
> If anyone thinks of anything, PLEASE LET ME KNOW because I don't want to upset anyone :(  
> PS: Wow so I guess this is kind of like my first REAL SMUT ever? *hides face*

 John finds him by the bleachers after school with one of his rare cigarettes hanging from his mouth. “I don’t want to know how you got that.” he murmurs, leaning against the bricks next to Sherlock.

 Sherlock blows out a puff of smoke, made thicker by the cold. “Mycroft brought it.” he answers anyway.

 “Why does he support your bad habits?”

 Sherlock shrugs. “Because I don’t let him do anything else.”

 John grabs the cigarette—mostly finished anyway—and tosses it into the snow. It sizzles in front of them for a moment before it goes quiet. “You could’ve killed him.” John says finally.

 “I would’ve.” Sherlock agrees, but there’s no sense of remorse. Only cold detachment. “The world would be better off without a boy like Carver Collins.”

 “Sherlock, you can’t say that.”

 “No? But he can torment us? _Us?_ That snake is worse than either of us, and you’re all too stupid to notice, so he gets away with it!”

 “You don’t get to decide who lives and who dies, Sherlock.” John says more firmly. “That’s not a choice for you to make.”

 Sherlock doesn’t answer. He doesn’t look up either. John sighs, rubbing a hand over his face even though it hurts. “You scared me.” John finally cracks. “You terrified me, Sherlock. I’m not easy to terrify, but I believe you would’ve killed him, and that scares me”

 “You believe it because it’s true.” Sherlock explains. “If he hurts you again, I can’t promise I won’t.”

 “You can’t _do_ that!”

 “Why not?” Sherlock pins him to the brick suddenly. “Why should I let him threaten something I love? _Why_ is that _okay?_ ”

 “Sherlock…” John says, but it’s weak. He feels _safe_ with Sherlock, even when he’s being terrifying. Sherlock may have him pinned on his toes, but he was _safe_. Sherlock’s grip still softens, so John lifts his hands to his hair, pulling him closer. The heat is a nice change. “Sherlock, it’s okay. I’m okay.”

 “No, you’re not. You’ve got severe abdominal pain and a broken nose.”

 John can feel him tense, so he tightens his hold. “Sherlock, look at me. _Look at me_. I’m _okay_. I’m in a bit of pain now, but I’ll be alright. We can’t let him get to us, okay? Right? You and me, Sherlock. It’s just you and me. Forget Carver. Forget all of them. It’s just us.”

 He goes limp now, like John’s just pulled every string just right and shut him down. Which, admittedly, he was trying to do. Sherlock collapses into him, clinging to his jacket with cold fingers, breath hot and fast. John thinks he might cry, but he doesn’t. Just holds on tight.

 “I was going to kill him.” Sherlock chokes out, like the weight has finally hit him. Only John still can’t sense any remorse. “I would’ve, for you, I would’ve.”

 “Let’s go home, okay?” John murmurs after a moment. “We’ll get some cocoa and we’ll cuddle and you can tell me about that blue thing you keep telling me not to touch.”

 He doesn’t say anything when John ushers him to the still waiting car. He doesn’t say a word until they’re in the attic, when John’s got him wrapped in blankets and hands him a cup of cocoa. Then, Sherlock speaks.

 “What took you so long?” he mutters, blowing on his cup.

 “You don’t have instant. I had to figure out how the hell you made it.”

 “Does my house look like it has instant cocoa?” Sherlock grins into his cup, sipping carefully while John glares at him.

 “No,” he admits, toes curling into the blankets. “But still.”

 “You’ll have to get me some.”

 “You’ll have a cocoa addiction. You’ll snort it in the school yard.”

 “Roll it in papers and smoke it.” Sherlock chuckles.

 “People will ask what those brown stains are under your fingernails.”

 “And I’ll have to ashamedly admit my boyfriend got me hooked on cocoa.”

 John lays his head on Sherlock’s shoulder, watching the snow fall against the window of the attic. “I’ve just tainted you, haven’t I? Sex, chocolate, fighting…I’m very bad for you.”

 “I could argue that.”

 “But?” John wonders, looking up.

 “But it’s true, so— _hey!_ Watch the drink! It’s hot!”

 John cackles as Sherlock’s hot cocoa sloshes in his cup. Sherlock sets it down carefully, taking John’s and doing the same, before pulling him down under the blankets, so it’s just the two of them. “I think,” he starts, slowly. “That I am the happiest I have ever been.”

 “I’m happy, too.” John says, grinning. “Wildly happy.”

 They both go quiet, eyes closing, simply touching each other to keep warm and satisfied. Then John says “Do you think we can just stay here? Locked in time like this forever?”

 “No.” Sherlock automatically answers. But he opens his eyes, taking in John’s grin. “But I’ll figure it out for you. I’ll plan it all out and I’ll come back in time to this very moment and give myself the device so we never have to leave this spot.”

 John opens his eyes, grinning widely. “At seven forty two, shall we say? That gives you two minutes to appear from the future.”

 “Alright.”

 They’re asleep before time runs out.

***

 “He put Collins up to it.”

 This is what John wakes up to. It’s late. He can’t see anything because the clouds are covering the moon and Sherlock doesn’t have any lights on, but he knows he’s pacing, because there’s a soft _pat pat pat_ of his feet and where he once was is empty and cooling. “What?” John mutters, then sighs in regret and tries to keep him from answering. “Sherlock, come back to bed.”

 “JM put Carver up to it. To attacking us.” Sherlock explains anyway, not looking anywhere close to coming back to bed.

“JM? The, uh…the threat? From a few months ago?” John struggles to keep up, rubbing sleep from his eyes. “He did what to Carver?”

 “He put him up to attacking us.”

 “O-okay?” John blinks a few times, eyes starting to see the shape of Sherlock moving.

 Sherlock throws something at John, and with a little difficulty John manages to get a decent look at it. “Is this another note?”

 “A letter.” Sherlock mutters. “It was in the post for me.”

 “And what’s it say?”

 Sherlock finally sits next to John, looking at the letter like some poisonous snake. “He asked if I liked his first move. He said it’s my turn now.”

 “Okay, so what do we do?”

 “I haven’t figured it out yet.”

 The way Sherlock says it is heartbreaking, like he’s just sentenced John to death by not having all the answers. John reaches out and grabs his arm. “Hey, it’s fine. We’ll do that tomorrow. Come on, we should get some sleep.”

 “You’re mother called you. Eight times. And texted.”

 The change of subject catches him off guard. “I’m…sure she has. I’ll call her tomorrow and get it sorted out.”

 “Mycroft told her you fell asleep over here studying.”

 “He did?”

 “Yes.”

 “That was…very nice of him.”

 Sherlock finally meets his eyes. “Would you like to go to my bed?”

 “You’re real bed? Seriously?”

 “It’s cold, and I’m tired. We deserve a good night’s sleep.”

 “Alright. Sure.”

 Sherlock’s room isn’t too far from the attic, but they’re still very quiet. The house is dark and silent, except for their breathing. They make it into the room without trouble and John wastes no time in collapsing on the bed. Sherlock maneuvers the blankets over him before crawling in. The fingers at John’s shirt makes him grin. “Handsy?”

 “You have to wear this tomorrow. It’ll need to be ironed otherwise.”

 John hums, let’s Sherlock strip his shirts, shoes, socks, and trousers. He considers doing the same for his boyfriend, but Sherlock’s ahead of him, already peeling off his own clothes. When Sherlock presses against him, skin to skin, John’s eyes fly open and meet his. “Oh.”

 “You’re very warm.” Sherlock mumbles approvingly.

 “You are, too. Surprisingly.”

 “Surprisingly? You consider me cold?”

 “You’re too thin to keep any body heat.” John explains, relaxing.

 Sherlock smirks and closes his eyes, slowly wrapping more thoroughly around John until…

 “ _JESUS!_ ”

 “Shhh!” Sherlock hisses, hand slapping over John’s mouth. “What? What is it?”

 John violently twists out of Sherlock’s grasp. “You’re _feet!_ Christ, Sherlock! You have circulation problems!”

 “Oh, stop whining.” John can hear the eye roll as Sherlock pulls them back together. Sherlock’s feet press against him once more and he whimpers, but they don’t move while they’re temperature evens out.  Because of the shock of Sherlock’s feet, John’s suddenly wide awake. Because of that, every nerve in his body is aware of the genius pressed against him. He suddenly wonders what his pulse feels like, so calm and easy. Then he realizes he’s got an open invitation to find out. So he moves his fingers up Sherlock’s chest and over his shoulder, pressing just under his jaw. It’s a slow, steady _thump thump thump_ …

 “Are you taking my pulse?”

 “Yes.” John answers absently, counting. _One, two, three_ …

 Sherlock reaches up and captures his wrist, fingers playing across it. “Interesting.”

 “What’s that?”

 “Not so terribly different from the violin.”

 “You play the violin?” John says, turning to face him now. His pulse has picked up just a bit, probably from being more awake. Still, his face is calm and his eyes remain shut, fluttering every once and awhile like he was maybe talking in his sleep.

 He doesn’t answer but to press down on some of the tendons. John’s fingers curl in response. His fingers switch positions, changing the way the blonde’s hand moves. “G,” he mumbles, then switches again. “C, E, E sharp…”

 “My arm is not an instrument.” John says, but it’s too adoring to cause Sherlock to stop.

 “Isn’t it though?—C again—Touch is a sense just like hearing. The violin—A—operates to the aural sense.—B—operates to the tactile sense. F.” His index finger wiggles slightly, and John’s hand spasms in response.

“I love when you talk dirty.” John teases, fingers lightening their touch and sliding into black curls.

 Sherlock nuzzles John’s hair and whimpers in delight. “If you’d like me to, I could.” he says, but it’s slightly breathless.

 “Could you really?” John wonders. “I’d pay to see that.”

 “I’m not a hooker, John.”

 “Maybe we should look into role-play.”

 “You’re an idiot.” Sherlock sighs.

 “And you’re a sap.” John reminds him, pressing a kiss towards his mouth but catching his chin instead. Sherlock doesn’t seem to mind.

 Neither one particularly notices that’s Sherlock’s getting hard until he’s pressed right against John’s stomach. “Hello.” John mumbles.

 “Don’t talk to it. That’s strange.”

 “Would you like to come, Little Sherlock?”

 “Jesus, I think it shrank.”

 It’s a lie, though. The word _come_ made him twitch, and John knows it. Sherlock liked words. He liked big ones, small ones, but _especially_ dirty and descriptive ones. Which is why John only grins leans forward to find his ear and whisper “I’m going to suck you off tonight, Sherlock. I keep my promises. I’m going to wrap my lips around your cock and make you see stars.”

 Sherlock doesn’t breathe.

 John rolls them over, kisses down his stomach, rubs lovingly at the long line of Sherlock’s erection. He looks up slowly. “You promise you’ve no STIs?”

 “You’re the only one I’ve ever been with.” Sherlock hisses impatiently. “If I’ve got it, you gave it to me.”

 “Fair enough.” John pulls on Sherlock’s briefs.

 The smell is a little overwhelming, he thinks. Not bad, just…heavy. New to his senses, at least this close. He presses forward, licks his palm and rubs him bare for the first time. Sherlock’s breath stutters and he arches up. _Well this won’t last long_. “You’ve got a rag?”

 “ _John_.”

 “Fine, fine.” he mutters. He leans forward, licking root to tip, getting the most beautifully broken noise he’d yet to pull from Sherlock. It makes him stop because he’s sure he’s in pain. He looks it, biting his arm, chest heaving, but his hand is knotting in John’s hair, urging him forward, so he does it again, and this time sucks the tip in.

 The sounds Sherlock’s making are tortuous. John wants to stop, but needs to hear them, so he doesn’t. He get’s maybe halfway down, unable to stand much more just yet, before Sherlock becomes utterly silent, nearly blacked out from his pleasure.

 Lifting his head, John asks quietly “Do you want to come?”

 “If I can. Jesus, John. I feel…I feel so…”

 “Shhh. Let me.”

 Four long, slow pumps accompanied by John’s tongue running base to head does the trick, and Sherlock comes violently, arching high and hard, spurting on his stomach and John’s fingers, biting his arm and giving an almost worrisome scream.

 When he stops coming, he looks dazed and exhausted. John thinks he must be with an orgasm like that. “You alright?”

 It takes awhile for him to answer, but eventually John hears “I drew blood.”

 “Shit,” John launches up, grabbing Sherlock’s arm. Sure enough, he’d broken skin. Not terribly deep, but still. “Christ, let me get some bandages.”

 Once John’s cleaned Sherlock's wound and body, they both settle under the covers. Sherlock falls asleep soon after, and John presses a soft kiss to his forehead before doing the same.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WOW LOOK WHO HAS RETURNED!  
> So my excuse this time around is incredibly lame. I've been editing like crazy and kept thinking I didn't have enough. Surprise! I have way more than enough. So good news is Chapter 6 will be up in a few days.  
> Lots of smut ahead (including teacher!Sherlock roleplay ;D )

John wakes up slowly. Sherlock is curled against his back, skin pressed to skin, and it’s nice. He wants it to stay like that. The room is warm because the sun has filtered in, but it’s not too warm, so he’s content to stay under the covers.

 And then he remembers school.

 His eyes snap open and he shoots up. Sherlock grumbles and curls into the spot he’s just vacated. John looks wildly for a clock. He finds one perched on the night stand and curses. “Shit! Shit, Sherlock, we’re late!”

 “Shut _up_.” Sherlock groans.

 “No, we’re— _oomf!_ ”

 Sherlock’s awake now, looking down at John, who’d toppled over Sherlock and onto the floor. “It’s nearly noon. We might as well stay in.”

 “Sherlock, we’ve got tests!” John argues, trying to find the sizes for the clothes on the floor. _Fucking uniforms_ …

 “By the time we get there, we’ll have missed most of it.” Sherlock reasons. John looks up. “Come back to bed.”

 John’s heart is beating fast, adrenaline from being late still pumping, but Sherlock’s hair is all over and his eyes are sleepy and John really can’t resist it, so he climbs back up and under the covers. Sherlock makes a happy noise and fits himself to John.

 “We really shouldn’t fit this well.” John muses.

 “No?”

 “Seems almost criminal, really.”

 “A sin, even.” Sherlock agrees, pressing a kiss to John’s scarred shoulder.

 John chuckles. “We should repent.”

 “Yes? How’s that?”

 John snorts. “Hell if I know.”

 Sherlock nuzzles John’s neck with a grin. “Maybe we should just sin some more, then. I’ve never been particularly religious anyway.”

 “Yeah?” John reaches out and cups Sherlock, who gasps, but doesn’t speak. John squeezes and he hears what he wants, the muffled _Oh god._ “You sure pray a lot for an unreligious bloke.”

 Sherlock grumbles unhappily, canting his hips towards John’s hand.

John gently rubs, getting a beautiful keening noise out of his boyfriend. “Mm, God, I love your voice.”

 “John…” Sherlock pants. “Fuck, John…”

 “Good. You’re so very good for me, you know.”

 Sherlock let’s out another yelp, his fingernails digging into John’s arm. “I— _oooh_ …”

 “Deep breaths, love.”

 “ _Jooohhnn…_ ”

 The blonde kisses him , stops moving his hand to make him last. Sherlock whines into his mouth, trying to return the kiss but making it sloppy. Neither seem to mind. John tips up his chin to force Sherlock to stop, to focus on himself. He growls and whines all at once, shuddering.

 “Sherlock?”

 Both boys freeze. John’s first to move, springing from the bed and pulling on his under shirt. Sherlock tosses blankets on the floor and sits up to hide his erection. John wraps himself haphazardly just in time for Sherlock’s mother to come in.

 John had never met Sherlock’s mother. Sherlock was pretty determined John _not_ meet her. He’d given in to meeting Mycroft, but his mother was a solid _no_. Now, however, John _was_ meeting her. Meeting her half naked, with a hard on, messy hair, and almost-new hickeys. It was as far from perfect as John could possibly imagine meeting Sherlock’s mother.

 She blinked at John a few times, confused as to why there was a disheveled boy on her son’s floor. She had Sherlock’s eyes, at least in personality. Sharp, focused, reading him for exactly what he was. Though hers were more green, like Mycroft’s. She puts her nose up and looks at her son, reading him just as easily. “You’re school called and said you hadn’t come in.”

 “Obviously.” Sherlock snaps.

 She narrows her eyes at him. “Who is he?”

 “I’m, ah…John.” he says, holding out a hand automatically. “Pleasure.”

 She doesn’t take it. Doesn’t even look at him. “Where were you for dinner last night?”

 “It doesn’t matter where I was.” Sherlock retorts.

 “Were you with _him?_ ” She points at John, finally acknowledging, and John can feel it like a knife in his chest.

 “Yes.” Sherlock says, narrowing his eyes, _daring_ her to say something.

 She takes the dare. “You’ve ten minutes to get dressed. I’ll accompany you to school.” She turns to John. “ _You_ have _five_ minutes to get out of my house. I don’t care who you are, but you will be gone by the time I return.”

 John blinks a few times, starts to ask _Sorry?_ because it was just all so absurd. She might be able to see through him, but she should also be able to see how absolutely he adored Sherlock. She had to see that, didn’t she? But she turns on her heel to walk away so he doesn’t really get the chance to ask.

 Sherlock stops her. “He’s staying, and so am I.”

 She freezes mid-step. John thinks she might just ignore him, but she turns and walks back, spine straight, eyes hard. “Sherlock Holmes, you _will_ do as I say.”

 Sherlock shrugs, looking bored. “What for?”

 “Sherlock…” John murmurs, but he’s completely steamrolled.

 “How _dare_ you! I am your _mother!_ You owe me your _life!_ ”

 “How dare _I?_ I’m not the one barging into your room and throwing out your boyfriend! Oh, don’t look so surprised!” Sherlock spits. And she does look surprised. It doesn’t go away just because he says not to be. “You _knew!_ You would’ve had to known! You’re the great Adelaide Holmes! Surely you could _tell?_ You’re my _mother_. Mothers know these things, don’t they?”

 “Stop it.” John says, louder.

 Sherlock looks at him now, frowns in confusion, then frustration as he turns back to his mother. “If John leaves, I leave.”

 She doesn’t answer before turning on her heel and slamming the door on her way out.

 “Sherlock, that was—”

 “I don’t want to talk about it.” Sherlock says firmly.

 “But you—”

 “ _I don’t want to talk about it._ ”

 John snaps his mouth shut, nods slowly, then he crawls into bed with him. Sherlock looks exhausted, so John pulls him down and they fall back asleep.

***

 “Why didn’t you tell her before?”

 “I honestly thought she knew.” Sherlock mumbles, arms folded over his knees, eyes trained out the window. When John had woken up, Sherlock wasn’t in the room. John had found him easy enough, sitting like he was now, staring and silent in the attic. They sat for awhile, but eventually the silence had become too much.

 “She can do what you can, yeah? The…deducing?” John asks,

 “She probably did know.” Sherlock says, almost like he was thinking to himself now. “She probably just didn’t want to believe it.”

 “Have you…before me, was there anyone?”

 Sherlock looks at him like he’s grown four extra heads. “No,” he spits. John can’t help but smirk at the disgust. It was touching, in a way, to know that out of all the people Sherlock had met John was the one he’d found most precious.

 “You can’t blame her,” John says, leaning back on his hands. “You’ll want to, but you can’t.”

 “I can’t blame her for discriminating against me, her gay son?”

 John lets the venom settle before trying again. “You can’t blame her for being surprised her son, who has never before expressed interest in a relationship, was caught about to fuck a man.”

 There’s a pause before Sherlock huffs.

 “Sherlock,” John sighs, moving to straddle him. He grabs either side of his face and forces him to meet his eyes. “Stop thinking.”

 “I can’t _stop thinking_.” Sherlock snaps, narrowing his eyes.

 “ _Stop_.”

 The abruptness of the order actually brings Sherlock’s mind to a brief halt—not a permanent one, but enough of a stutter to cause a moment of complete quiet between them. John relaxes as he feels Sherlock melt beneath him. “There. See? Better.”

 Sherlock swallows. “Thank you.”

 “You can repay me by teaching me chemistry.” John teases.

 “I’m not your tutor.”

 “Now that’s an interesting thought.” John’s fingers thread through Sherlock’s hair while his eyes go over his face.

 Sherlock looks over now. “What is?”

 “Oh, _please_ , Mr. Holmes!” John suddenly pleads, fingers tightening and eyes snapping to Sherlock’s. “I need to get my scores up before end of term. I’ll do _anything_.” Sherlock’s eyes darken and John grins. “See? Interesting thought, isn’t it?”

 “Yes.” Sherlock says, grabbing John and yanking him forward. John arches back, keeping them apart as much as he can. Which is—admittedly—not a lot. Sherlock’s lip twitches as he grows unhappily. John only smirks, his left hand closing on the fabric of Sherlock’s shirt. “Mr. Holmes,” John says, quietly. “I think this is…slightly inappropriate.”

 Sherlock narrows his eyes. “I didn’t ask what you thought.”

 “That’s offensive.”

 Sherlock goes to kiss him, but John backs up. “Mr. Holmes…”

 “John Watson, do you want a better grade?”

 “Yes, Mr. Holmes.” John says meekly.

 “Do you want to be a better student?”

 “Yes, Mr. Holmes.”

 Sherlock moves John onto his back, straddling him instead and pulling his hands above his head. “Then you need to learn to listen.”

 “Alright, Mr. Holmes.”

 “Good. Now, I’m going to ask you some questions. If you give the wrong answers, you lose five percent. Stay focused. Don’t speak unless spoken to. Understood?”

 “Yes, Mr. Holmes.”

 Sherlock leans in, brushes his lips over John’s John, pulling on his earlobe. “What’s the etymology of the word ‘regal?’”

 “Sherlock, I wouldn’t know that if I wasn’t being seduced.” John huffs.

 “Ten percent, one for not knowing, one for calling me Sherlock.”

 John rolls his eyes.

 “Fifteen. You’re very bad at this.”

 “Let me try and earn it back.” John kisses him. John runs his tongue over his top lip and then bites at his bottom and Sherlock gets hard fast, groaning and pushing against John. When he pulls back, it’s out of desperation. He grinds out “Let’s try this again. Twenty four time six.”

 John sighs, but his annoyance fades fades as Sherlock begins sucking at his neck. “Um, ah…shit, um…twenty four…twelve…fourteen…one hundred forty four.”

 “A little slow,” Sherlock muses. “But correct.”

 “Thank God.”

 “Minus five for speaking out of turn. Disappointing, John.”

 “I’m sorry, sir.”

 Sherlock kisses him lightly a few times before asking the next question. “The number of ribs in the average human body?”

 John breathes sharply when Sherlock grinds against him. “Twenty!” He blurts, then hurries out “Four. Twenty four, twelve on each side.”

 “Well done, John.” Sherlock purrs. “Very well done.”

 “Thank you,”

 Sherlock sits him up to peel off his shirt, then shoves him back down to continue kissing down his neck, stopping to ask “The stages of mitosis?” before sucking John’s nipple into his mouth.

 John groans before stuttering out “Inter, Pro, Meta, Ana, and Telophase.”

 Sherlock peaks up. “And?”

“ _And?_ ” Sherlock raises his eyebrow and John curses. “And, um… _Jesus!_ ” Sherlock grins wickedly as he raises his head from the nipple he’d just bitten. “Cytokinesis!” John blurts.

 “You’re doing so well,” Sherlock praises, pressing soft kisses to John’s chest. “Though interphase is not technically part of the mitosis process. Minus two and a half, I suppose.”

 “Sir, please.” John begs. “Please.”

 “Please what, John? I thought you needed better grades?”

 “I’ll do anything.” John begs. “Just, please, don’t make me answer any more.”

 “Are you suggesting you’ll sleep with me in exchange for a better grade, John Watson?”

 “Yes.” John says, without hesitation.

 Sherlock moves up, kisses him slowly before pulling away and dropping his voice to a murmur. “I should be more worried about your willingness to trade sex for grades, John, but I’m too hard to particularly care.”

 “If you were my teacher, I’d be screwed.”

 “You’ll be screwed anyway.”

 “ _Sherlock_.”

Sherlock smacks John’s thigh. “That’s Mr. Holmes, John. Don’t forget your place.”

 “ _Mr. Holmes_ ,” John grinds out. “If you don’t hurry up, I’m going to come in my trousers.”

 “Promise?”

  John whimpers.

 Sherlock kisses his way down John’s torso, undoing his trousers and slipping them down to his thighs. He takes John’s pants in his teeth and snaps them, and John curses again. Sherlock considers reprimanding him, just to see that delightful flare of anger, but he doesn’t. He lowers his pants and kisses the side of his cock wetly. John groans, hands digging into the bedding they’d become so very familiar with recently.

 Just like kissing, Sherlock had no experience with anyone else and it gave him a certain perspective. He wasn’t concerned with what others liked. Only what John liked. So he went fast down and slow up, sucking hard. John came apart under him quickly, thrusting up into his mouth and letting out broken moans.

 Sherlock closes his eyes to listen to them, pulls back as licks over the head lewdly.

 “Sh- _Sherlock_.” John gasps, propping himself up to watch. Sherlock looks up under his lashes as he sucks the tip of John’s erection. “Oh, god. You’re so beautiful.” John breathes, reaching and grabbing a fistful of hair. “Look at you. _Fuck_.”

 Sherlock flattens his tongue along the side and licks up slowly, making John drop his head back. “Would you come in my mouth?” Sherlock asks. John brings his head back up—with difficulty, Sherlock notes—and takes a few gasping breathes before nodding. Sherlock bends his head, keeps eye contact, and hollows out his cheeks on the upstroke. John’s gasps get faster and then he shatters, pushing his hips up and Sherlock’s head down.

 It’s not _terrible_ , Sherlock thinks. It was bitter, but Sherlock would swallow if John looked at him like he was looking at him now—like he was an enigma, like he was impossible. Sherlock smacks his lips a few times, and John grabs his neck, pulling him in and kissing him. He pulls back after a moment, grins. “That’s not the best tasting thing in the world, is it?”

 “The experience is well worth the inconvenience.” Sherlock assures him.

 John squeezes Sherlock’s arse, making him push into his thigh. Sherlock closes his eyes on a sigh, suddenly remembering that he, too, was on a tipping point. “Want another experience?” John asks.

 Sherlock opens his eyes and raises an eyebrow.

 John’s fingers are quick, undoing his button and zipper and pushing his clothes down only enough to reach him. Sherlock makes a noise in the back of his throat when those fingers close around his cock, closing his eyes. He drops his forehead to their makeshift mattress.  “You know what I love most about you?” John murmurs, stroking slowly. “I love how you throw yourself into things wholeheartedly. I love the way you pin your full attention on me, even though I’m really not saying anything of interest. I also love that noise you just made.”

 Sherlock huffs a laugh, but it turns into a groan when John squeezes.

 “I love how fucking smart you are. It’s amazing. You’re amazing. I love you.” John presses his mouth to Sherlock’s temple, says it again. “I love you, I love you, I love you…”

 Sherlock raises his head to look into John’s eyes. “Keep going.” he urges, grabbing the sides of John’s face and kissing him deep. John sighs, moves his hand faster over Sherlock, thumbing over the head like he knew Sherlock loved. Sherlock does indeed buck when he does that, slipping in control and biting a bit too hard on John’s lip. Then John feels him shiver, and Sherlock’s coming on his stomach. When everything’s calmed down, Sherlock kisses the blood off John’s mouth before pressing kisses to the rest of his face. “You are mine.” Sherlock pulls back to look at his ridiculously blissful face then dips back in to kiss him more greedily. “Mine.”

 


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heya! So today is my tumblr birthday (it would be the day before Sherlock Hiatus begins again, wouldn't it?) and so I decided I better update this. It's been awhile. I haven't updated since last year! *crickets*  
> Anyway, this gets...um...well  
> Warning for child abuse

 John’s mom is _not_ happy with him when he gets home. She cries, and she throws a few things. She yells at him about being a useless son and how could he be so sick as to date a man? As to let Harry see that sort of filth? He goes to bed with a set of cuts in his shoulders from her nails when she’d shaken him and a burning sting from where she’d kept hitting him.

He doesn’t see her in the morning—he assumes she drank herself to sleep again—but he meets Harry at the table. She’s eating cereal and looks up discretely, like if she acknowledges him completely their mother might swoop down on her. The anger inside him nearly tips over when he realizes that in his absence, Harry had been chosen as the replacement. But he quickly checks himself because more anger was not what his little sister needed. He sits next to her with his own cereal. “I know I haven’t been here much—” he starts.

 “You haven’t been here at all.” Harry mutters, taking another bite.

 John swallows. “Yeah.” He tries to meet her eyes, but she’s shielding her face with her hair. So he reaches across and brushes it out of the way.

 She flinches, and pulls it back down, but he’s seen it. The nasty mark of a particularly hard slap. The cuts of untrimmed fingernails catching when she’d swung too messily—the result of her drinking. “You could have told me.”

 “When?” Harry counters, raising her head, meeting his eyes with her own, blue just like his, sad and a bit scared but mostly resolved to subject herself to this. “I’ve seen you maybe three times this month. You’re always with Sherlock. Which is fine, John, because I want you to be happy and I know he makes you happy, but don’t tell me I should be talking to you when you’re never here.”

 He couldn’t say much to that. She was right, of course. He drops his head, pushing his cereal around his bowl, suddenly not at all hungry.

 “You know why she did it, John.” Harry says softly.

 John’s head flies up. “That’s not fair.”

 “No,” she agrees, unperturbed. “It’s not. But it’s true.”

 John falls silent and stays that way all the way to school, not speaking when he walked Harry to the bus, not speaking when he decided to walk instead of endure the look of his little sister pretending to be happy. He’s completely silent until he reaches the door of his school.

 Sherlock’s sitting by the door, waiting and looking annoyed. When he sees John there’s a brief flash of joy before flash of confusion followed by a blank look that John knew by now as Sherlock shutting down. When John nears, Sherlock stands. “What did she do?”

 “Good morning to you, too.” John says. It was supposed to come out teasing, but it’s a little too snappish.

 Sherlock quickly but gingerly starts tracing over the barely-there mark on John’s cheek. “Are you okay?”

 John nods.

 Sherlock sets his jaw, but John catches the anger rippling over his features. “You shouldn’t have to stay there.”

 “Even if I didn’t, I would. I’ve got a little sister, Sherlock. She needs me.”

 A sudden understanding comes into Sherlock’s face. “What happened to Harriet?”

 John feels himself pale. “Sherlock, don’t.” he says firmly.

 “What happened?” Sherlock repeats. John sets his jaw and they stare for a long while before Sherlock gives lets him go and starts walking the opposite direction of the school.

 “Sherlock!” John sputters, spinning with the force that Sherlock had shoved him. “Where are you going?”

 “To have a chat.”

 “No! You’re not going anywhere near her!” John grabs his arm and yanks.

 “She can’t treat you this way!” Sherlock roars immediately. “She can’t treat Harriet this way! If she wants to attack me, _let her_ , but she will _not_ attack you and she won’t attack someone you love!”

 “Then you can’t let her attack you!” John shouts. He lets that sink in before taking Sherlock’s other arm. “Don’t do this, Sherlock. I’m begging you. Please.” There’s an obvious frustration in his features now. He moves his hands down his arms to hold his hands. “I can handle this on my own, Sherlock. I don’t need you to fight all my battles for me.”

 “I don’t trust her, John.” Sherlock says lowly.

 “Neither do I, which is why I don’t want you within a hundred feet of her.” John holds his eyes for a solid minute before he’s satisfied Sherlock’s gotten the point. “Let’s go, we’re going to be late.”

***

 Sherlock spends most the day in the basement. When he’d broken off at the doorway to class, John had looked at him sadly, and he supposed he could understand why. They wouldn’t get to see each other after the school day ended anymore, and really he _wanted_ to be with John as much as he could. But he needed the time to think.

 He loves John. _Desperately_. More than John could ever love him. So why John wouldn’t let Sherlock protect him was beyond frustrating. He knows John can mostly take care of himself, and the idea of John doing anything like this for him made him want to throw something, but John was _his_. He thought he’d made that abundantly clear. And to think that John was hurting in any way made him furious.

 He taps his fingers against his arms, crossed over his knees. The boiler is rumbling unhappily behind him and he considers just going in and fixing that blasted nut because the school was going to have to replace it if they waited for that drunk to come and do it. He hears the scuff of shoes and snaps his head towards the door, locking eyes with John.

 “I figured I’d find you down here.” he says kindly, if a bit sad.  He’s got his hands in his pockets and looks absolutely perfect standing in that dingy doorway.

 Sherlock doesn’t say anything, but it doesn’t matter. John still sits next to him. “It’s lunch, so I thought I’d bring you something.” An apple comes into view, but Sherlock ignores it, so John takes it back. They sit like that for awhile, shoulder to shoulder, knee to knee, John waiting for Sherlock to say something he doesn’t know how to. Of course, John is first to break.  “I wish you’d come up. We’re playing with rats in biology today. I bet you could sneak one out. We could keep it as a pet.” The answering silence gets a frustrated sigh. “I want to keep spending time with you, Sherlock. I’m trying to make this work. I know it’s not ideal—”

 Sherlock looks at him now. The older boy looks devastated, just absolutely wrecked, but it doesn’t soften his words. “Ideal? John, she’s going to tear you apart. And you want me to _let her._ ”

 “Sherlock, stop.”

 The sting is unavoidable. Sherlock turns his eyes down. They’re quiet for awhile. Then John nudges him. “I still love you.” He waits, then says a little more firmly. “You still love me, right?”

Sherlock looks over. John’s starting to tense. He unceremoniously climbs onto his lap, wrapping his legs around John’s back and pressing their foreheads together. “You know I do, you idiot.” he murmurs, pressing a chaste kiss to his mouth. Then he grins. “This is my favorite style of the uniform on you.” Sherlock says, changing subjects. He plucks at the gray jumper and smirks when John manages to grin, too.

 “Oh?” he asks, placing his hands at the small of Sherlock’s back. “Why’s that?”

 “Jumpers are very…snug.” he says. “And you’re more comfortable in them, therefore more confident. I do like you confident.”

 “We’ll see about that.”

 When John leaves a bit later—after a good amount of lazy snogging—Sherlock only waits long enough to reason himself into it. Then he, too, leaves, but he doesn’t go to class. He walks, and walks, and walks until he’s standing in front of John’s house. It’s seemingly empty, but he knows it’s not. Where would she have gone? He walks to the door, rings the bell. There’s a bustle from inside, then silence. Then the door opens, and Sherlock’s hit with the smell of alcohol. John’s mother looks nothing like she had at the night of the dance. Then she’d been delicate, nervous, slightly apprehensive. She’d been neat and ordered. Now she was messy, unkempt and unclean. Her eyes were bloodshot and she had pure fury across her face at the sight of him. “ _You_.” she breathes, terror coming across her features.“What are _you_ doing here?”

 “I came to speak with you.”

 “I don’t want to speak with you.” She hisses, retreating slowly. “You’re insane. You’re _corrosive._ ”

 Sherlock’s a little shocked at first, not because she’s said it, but at the accuracy of the word itself. _Corrosive_. He was. Anything he touched was eaten away, sometimes slowly, sometimes in a flash. He broke people. It was as simple as that. But John…John seemed so sturdy. It had seemed impossible to break him.

 And here they were.

  He catches the door before she slams it. “You can’t hold John accountable for my actions.” he hurries out. “He’s a good man.”

 Her eyes have started to glisten. “He used to be so good. My little boy. He used to be so sweet.” Her face twists into a snarl. “Then _you_ came along. Now look at him!”

 “He hasn’t changed.” Sherlock pushes the door open.

 This throws her into a panic. “No! You stay _exactly_ where you are!” She stumbles backwards, holding her hands out. “I’ll call the police! They’ll have a thing or two to say about your being here! I’ll set up a restraining order! You’ll _never_ see him _again!_ ” She spins to go do just that and a jolt of alarm goes through him, so he reaches without thinking and grabs.

 She’s screaming again, pulling at her arm. “Let go! Let go of me!” He releases her just as quickly as he’d grabbed her and she stumbles back, bumping into the stairs and falling. She’s staring at him, fear and anger and repulsion.

 “Don’t take him away.” Sherlock rushes out, hands held between them in peace. “Please. You…you don’t understand. I love him. I love him, and I’d do anything for him. That’s why I’m here.”

 “You’re sick.” she hisses . “You’re a freak!”

  _Freak_. Sherlock’s not new to that word. It still stings. But her using it in reference to his relationship with John sets off something inside of him. Anger erupts violently. “I’m not the one who hits her children.”

 Her jaw drops. It’s dead silent. He can see anger and shame and sadness in her face. It’s sickly pleasing to him, so he continues. “I’m not the one who blames an uncontrollable biological preference on her child and _punishes_ him for it.  I’m not the one who’s not only unsupportive, but _abusive_. You’re unstable and unreliable and you don’t _deserve_ him.”

 “Shut up.”

 “I may be a freak, but I at least can love your son for who he is. Can you say the same?”

 “Shut up! Shut _up_!” she growls. _She’s faster than she looks_ is the only thought Sherlock gets before her hand is in his hair and dragging him down. She hits him once, twice, gets him onto his knees and kicks him over.

 He wonders how such a small woman can hurt so much, because there’s nothing else he can possibly think. He’s too shocked. She takes a swing to the back of his head and he collapses, breathing heavily. She stops then, her sobs loud and gasping. He rolls onto his back, discovering just how hard it is for him to breathe.

 “I love him.” she gasps. “I love them, please…”

 “Can you stand, Sherlock?”

 Sherlock looks weakly towards the door. He can’t see his face, but he knows that voice. He considers the question, then sits up. It hurts, but he manages to get to his feet by himself.

  Mycroft walks in, umbrella clicking on the wood. “Go the car.” he orders, staring straight at John’s completely broken mother.

 Sherlock complies, though he pauses near the door to catch their conversation.

 “I could have you thrown out of the country, Mrs. Watson, if I so desired. Worse things have happened to those who’ve _looked_ at my brother wrong. And you have done much more than looked. It seems you are a threat to yourself and those around you, Mrs. Watson. I’ll be sending someone to come collect you in an hour. That should be enough time to pack and leave notes for your children. Not to worry, they’ll be taken care of, as will the expenses of your treatment. I’ll see you again.”

 “You can’t—” she begins.

 “I can, though.” Mycroft interrupts, snapping now. “You have severely injured my brother, as well as emotionally and physically damaged yourself and your children. It’s well within my area to put you anywhere I’d like. Do I make myself _clear?_ ” Mycroft waits for an answer, but none comes. He spins to his brother. “Sherlock, _car_.”

 For perhaps the first time in Sherlock life, he doesn’t argue. He slides in the back and waits for Mycroft to join him. The car hardly waits for the door to shut before it’s carrying them away. It’s quiet for the first few minutes, but Sherlock’s never been good with quiet, so he says “You shouldn’t have come.”

 “ _You_ shouldn’t have gone.” Mycroft snaps.

 Sherlock turns to watch out the window. “Where are you sending her?” he asks after a moment.

 “That’s yet to be determined.”

 Sherlock hesitates. “And…John?”

 “He and his sister will come stay with us, for the time being.”

 “Mother won’t—”

 “Leave Mother to me.”

 Sherlock looks at him again. Mycroft’s got his head in his hand, leaning against the window. He looks ragged. “Thank you.”

 Mycroft snorts, but his poster softens. He peaks up at Sherlock and offers a weak smile. “John really has rubbed off on you.”

 “Yes.” Sherlock agrees, facing out his own window again.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh heeey everyone, how's it goin?  
> Tell me if you notice anything grammar/spelling/etc wise :3  
> ENOUGH LOVE ON IT AND I'LL ADD A NSFW CHAPTER TONIGHT, TOO ;D

 Sherlock’s waiting on his steps when the car pulls in. John gets out, and Sherlock stands. The moment they lock eyes, Sherlock deflates. John is furious. He’s not just hurt, he’s completely raging. He walks straight to Sherlock and shoves him. His ribs—bandaged underneath his shirt—protest, but he says nothing. “How _dare_ you? I told you not to go! I told you not to get involved! I thought I could trust you!”

 “John, I—”

 “You’ve completely destroyed my family! You’ve uprooted my sister, and you _lied_ to me!”

  _You’re corrosive._

 “I didn’t mean for this to happen.” Sherlock says lamely.

 “That’s because you didn’t think, Sherlock! You never think about these things! You never think about consequences, and look what’s happened!”

 “John—”

 “I’m done, Sherlock! Sod this, and sod you!”

_I still love you. You still love me, right?_

 John pushes inside. Harry follows him quietly with only a glance to Sherlock, which he doesn’t notice. Mycroft follows her, though he pauses to set a hand on Sherlock’s shoulder. It barely registers.

 Sherlock can’t move. Where would he go if he could anyway? He can’t go inside. John’s in there. He can’t go to the attic. John will be everywhere in that place. Even his room isn’t safe. Nowhere is safe anymore. John has conveniently wound himself in everything Sherlock has, and then he’d just ripped it all out from underneath him.

 He sits heavily on the steps, now realizing he’s shaking almost violently. His breathing is short and his throat is tight. He fists his hands to try and end the trembling. It doesn’t work. He growls in frustration, but it comes out as a keening.

  _I’m not your enemy. I’m sure you’ve got enough of those..._

_Made it up! Brilliant!_

_You’re amazing. I love you. I love you, I love you, I love you…_

 Sherlock pulls at his hair, feeling sick. This wasn’t right. Everything was wrong. It was _wrong wrong wrong wrong wrong wrong_ —

 “You missed dinner.” Sherlock opens his eyes with a start. It’s gotten dark out, but someone’s turned the light on. He looks up at Mycroft, who looks entirely bored with this situation. It makes Sherlock want to run away in shame, or plead for the secret to get rid of his emotions entirely. He does neither. “Mother apologized to John for reacting the way she did. John didn’t say much.” Mycroft continues. When Sherlock remains silent, Mycroft sits next to him on the steps. It’s one of the only times Sherlock’s seen him look so…human. “I’m sorry.” his brother says quietly. “I’m sorry that this happened.”

 “He’s everywhere now.” Sherlock blurts. “I feel him like he’s under my skin, and I can’t get him out.” Sherlock looks down at his arms, watching his nails scrape across them. “How do you do it?” He looks back up. “Not care?”

 Mycroft sighs. “Caring is not an advantage, Sherlock. People will always look for your weak spots, and as long as you care you’ll have them.”

 “If you’re going to be unhelpful, you can just leave.” Sherlock grits out.

 Mycroft resumes easily. “I think you and John are a rare occurrence, however. To give that up would be a waste.”

 “I didn’t _give him up_.” Sherlock spits. “I was trying to help, I was trying to protect him! And now I—I’ve lost him.”

 “I think,” the older says, standing, “that something as precious as what you two have won’t be lost as easily as you might think.”

 Sherlock looks up apprehensively. Mycroft’s regarding him with a placid look, one that Sherlock might be used to, but there was a softness to it. It nearly broke him. His throat felt tight, and he swallows. “He hates me.”

 “I didn’t say it would be easy.” Mycroft makes a face at the thought while dusting himself off. “Just think about it.”

 Sherlock does think about it. He sits and he thinks until he’s gone numb from cold, and it’s only then he goes inside. Everything’s the same. Nothing has changed. John’s hatred hasn’t poisoned the space, but that somehow makes it feel more wrong. He can’t stand the thought of going to the attic, so he goes to his room. It’s also the same, unchanged and utterly _wrong_. His entire world had shifted, shouldn’t everything else be the different? The incongruity causes him to be swept up in exhaustion. He undresses and climbs in bed, shivering as the feeling comes back into his limbs and the utter agony of being there without John settles into him.

 He wakes up in the middle of the night because something’s moving in his room. Suddenly his covers are peeled back and John’s croaking “Move over.”

 He does without question. John settles in the bed, then buries his face in Sherlock’s neck and wraps himself around him. He’s been crying. That much is clear. Sherlock’s not sure what to make of it, so he doesn’t move. John trembles and pulls him closer.

  _We really shouldn’t fit this well._

 “I love you.” John mutters. “You’re a momentous prat, but I love you.”

 Sherlock’s eyes close, and he savors the words. John still loved him. John still wanted him. He allows himself to give in and wraps himself around John as well. “I’m so sorry.” he whispers. “I didn’t…I’m so sorry, John.”

 “I know. No, I know you didn’t mean to.” John murmurs. “I know.”

 “You hate me.” he finally whispers, because saying it any louder would end him. John hated him, he did, he must.

 John shakes his head almost violently. “No, Sherlock. No, I don’t hate you. I’m angry with you, but I don’t hate you.”

 “I hate me.”

 John raises his head now, meets Sherlock’s eyes. Sherlock can’t make out the color, but the expression on his face leads him to believe they’d be grey. John’s eyes fluctuated that way, between bright blue when he was happy and dark grey when he was upset. He’s upset now. “Don’t.” he mumbles. “Don’t say that.”

 “I do. I can’t blame you if you hate me.”

 “It’s not just your fault.” John argues. “You shouldn’t have gone, but she shouldn’t have attacked you. She shouldn’t have been drinking. You were just trying to help, Sherlock, that’s hardly something I can hate you for.”

 Sherlock suddenly feels the urge to grip John tight, so he does. He pulls him close and presses their foreheads together. “I love you, John. I love you.”

 John laces his fingers in Sherlock’s hair. “I love you, too. I’m not going anywhere, I promise.”

 “You’re the only thing I have, and losing you is unbearable. I can’t do it. I can’t.”

 “You’re not losing me, Sherlock. We’ll be okay.” John kisses him now, and it seems to mend whatever might’ve broken between them. “You’ll never lose me. I’m always here.” They’re quiet for a bit, wrapped in each other, safe and warm and loved, and then John laughs a little. “You’re a sap.”

 Sherlock closes his eyes, pulls him closer. “You’re an idiot.”

***

 John wakes up with Sherlock pressed into every inch of him. He’s hot, but it’s still somehow comfortable. He opens his eyes and looks over his boyfriend’s face, vulnerable in sleep alone. Well…

 He’d been so angry, so hurt when Mycroft had come to pick him up, Harry in the car already, and said simply “You’ll be staying with us.” It had felt like he’d been shot. He doesn’t even remember the car ride. What he _does_ remember is Sherlock staring at him, wrecked and starting to shake.

 “John—”

 “I’m done, Sherlock! Sod this, and sod you!”

 He hadn’t meant to say it. He was actually surprised the words had come out at all. But the anger at what had happened—it was clear, now; Sherlock had torn apart his family—kept him from apologizing. And there, there was the vulnerability. There was the Sherlock who had come into school with walls built high around him, walls John had worked hard to scale. Walls that he’d probably just fallen off of forever.

 John unpacked in the guest room, slamming haphazardly folded shirts into drawers and kicking his suitcase under the bed with enough force to jam his toe. He’d paced until the sun went down and then collapsed on his new mattress and just breathed. That was when the remorse hit him.

 Dinner had been torture. Sherlock wasn’t there, but his mother was, and maybe that was worse. She was hardly a fan of John anyway, what would she say now that he had hurt Sherlock? Still, despite his worries, she was reserved. The only time anyone spoke was when she said “I apologize for the way we met. It was unfortunate.”

 “This isn’t much better.” John admitted. It came out more bitter than he’d wanted, so he tried again. “But I appreciate you allowing us to stay here.”

 “You’re a good boy, John.” she said after a minute. “You’re good for Sherlock, even I can see that.”

_I’m done, Sherlock! Sod this, and sod you!_

 He looks down at his meal.

 “I hope you’ll enjoy your time here.”

 Going to bed was hell. Laying alone on a queen sized mattress, compared to the pile of blankets in Sherlock’s attic, felt wrong. It felt cold. Sherlock was clear in his mind, and the more he thought about him, the more details began to form. Bruises and scratches and plasters. Those were his mother’s fault. He recognized the handy-work. Sherlock had just tried to help. He hadn’t meant it. John knew it, had known it, and had let himself be swept away in some familial loyalty he’s not even sure he’s ever felt before.

 It was hours before he’d finally pulled himself together, or at least enough to be able go into Sherlock’s room. He was asleep when he got there, looking peaceful. Not even two second passed before his eyes opened and looked blindly around. He caught John, and the walls went up. John felt his heart twist at the realization of what side he was on.

 But God, he needed him. He needed Sherlock to if he was ever going to breathe again, no matter how selfish it was. He couldn’t just sit with that ache in his stomach, knowing he’d wrecked this all himself.

 Now, Sherlock was peaceful again. He’d wake up and see John and the walls would go up but they would work around him. They would build up high around both of them, protecting them from everyone, and John could be very happy like that.

 Sherlock opens his eyes slowly, locking on to John almost immediately. “John.” he breathes, relief coating the word.

 “Hey.” John whispers for no reason in particular.

 “John.” This time it comes out content. “I was worried I’d wake up and you wouldn’t be here. I was worried…I was worried you were a dream.”

 “No. No, not a dream.” John murmurs, fingers brushing back the tangle of curls over Sherlock’s ear. “And you want to know what? I was worried about the same thing when I woke up.”

 “You won’t be expected at school,” Sherlock says after a moment. “And he knows if you’re here, I’m here, too.”

 “Mm. Are you suggesting we skip school?”

 “I’m suggesting you let _me_ skip school to be with you. As previously stated, you aren’t expected there today.”

 “We should really both go.”

 Sherlock doesn’t seem very pleased with this. In fact, Sherlock is so displeased that he pins John to the bed and makes it utterly clear neither of them is going anywhere unless John is going to carry him to school in nothing but pants.

 John’s giggling under a barrage of kisses when there’s a bang on the door. “Johnny! Johnny, Mycroft said we didn’t have to go to school!”

 John blinks, confused. “How did you know I’d be in here?” he calls back.

 Harry’s barking laughter comes through the door and quiets only as she skips down the hallway.

 “How—”

 “Don’t ask stupid questions.” Sherlock admonishes, kissing him again, softer now. “Just enjoy this.”

 “I am enjoying this.” John says, relaxing underneath him. “I just don’t want to flunk out of school.”

 “We’ll be fine.” Sherlock promises.

 John hums. “Yeah, I think we will be.”


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OKAY I WANT TO START BY SAYING THE REASON I DIDN'T UPLOAD IS NOT A LACK OF LOVE BUT RATHER EVERYONE GOT REALLY ANGRY ABOUT OTHER STUFF AND IT DIDN'T SEEM LIKE AN APPROPRIATE TIME  
> Any way, here's some shower smut for ya

 “ _John.”_

 “Sherlock, I _have_ to get up.” John sighs.

 Sherlock pulls him closer anyway.

 John growls. “I’m going to pee on you.”

 “I’m not really into that sort of thing.”

 “ _Sherlock_.”

 “ _Fine_.” Sherlock groans, pushing him away. Only, he pushes him a little too hard, and John yelps as he slips out of the bed and collapses on the floor. He blinks up and Sherlock’s face comes into view, concern turning into humor. “Your punishment.” he says decidedly.

 “I’ll punish you later.” John wheezes, scrambling up.

 Sherlock waits contently for a few minutes, but when he decides that John’s taking too long he pads his way to the bathroom. At the sound of the shower running, he peaks his head into the door. “John?”

 “Ah, you got up.” John says from the other side of the shower. A moment later, he peaks out from behind the curtain, hair deliciously wet. “I thought I’d take advantage of you letting me up for a shower.” He ducks back into the shower, searching through the shampoo for something he could use.

 The curtain draws back again, and John thinks that maybe he should be more surprised than he is when Sherlock drapes himself over his shoulders. “You were supposed to come back to bed.” he mumbles sullenly.

 “I would’ve come back when I was done.” John says.

 “Took too long.” Sherlock says, running his nose along the crease of John’s neck.

 John shivers. “You know…this is the first time we’ve been fully naked in front of each other.”

 Sherlock stills, considering, then moves his arms to wrap around the blonde, pressing even closer.”It is.”

 “Naked and wet.”

 Sherlock chuckles. “Ever so observant.”

 “I bet you look gorgeous.” John sighs.

 “Not as gorgeous as you do.” Sherlock murmurs.

 “Well, that’s not very fair. You’ve seen me, but I haven’t seen you.”

 Sherlock’s nips at his earlobe. “Say it like you mean it and perhaps I’ll let you turn around.”

 John smirks, shivering. “You think I don’t want to see you naked?”

 “I think you’re enjoying the fact that I get to look at you without any sort of barriers and yet you can’t see me. Is this a kink, John?” Sherlock runs one hand downward, in between John’s legs. His prick is half hard already, and when Sherlock gets his fingers on it, it takes moments for it to respond. “Something I should take note of?”

 “Oh, shut up, you prat.” John breathes, bracing himself on the shower wall. “God, you’re good at that, you know.”

 Sherlock looks down, watches himself wrap his fingers around John’s cock. “Hmm.”

 John shivers. “Fuck, fuck, Sherlock, I’m too close. I’m…”

 Sherlock’s quick to squeeze around the base, but it’s a little hard. John winces. “Sorry, sorry…” Sherlock mutters. “Just…not yet.”

 “Alright, just…mm…” John shifts back against him. “God, you’re hard, too, aren’t you?”

 Sherlock looks down and sees himself pressed against John’s arse and lower back. “Oh.”

 John pushes his hips into Sherlock’s hand. “Mm, Sherlock, it’s not that I’m not loving this, but can we just— _oh, fuck!_ ”

 Sherlock shivers, rutting against his boyfriend while pistoning his hand across John nearly perfectly. He lowers his mouth to John’s shoulder, biting to keep himself grounded. The taste of salt and water and skin is no help.

 John’s hands slip, squeaking loudly, but at least it covers up the broken moan he lets out when he comes. Sherlock growls, squeezing a little before letting go to use his hand on himself. John’s panting, seems exhausted, but is determined at this point. “Oh, fuck. God, you made me come so hard. Come for me, Sherlock. Come on me, please. Please.”

 “Oh, _fuck_. _John_.”

 John looks over his shoulder. He can only see Sherlock’s from the shoulders up, but he’s flushed pink from arousal and hot water. His hair is dripping into his eyes, but he looks like he could give fuck-all about it. John moans. “Oh, God, look at you. Fuck, Sherlock, come, please. Please.”

 Sherlock slams his free hand into the wall, holding himself. No amount of sound could cover Sherlock’s moan, which John turns to swallow in a vicious kiss. Sherlock pushes him back against the wall, causing another loud bang. John wonders vaguely who all’s home to hear this and then decides he doesn’t care because Sherlock’s pressed against him and wonderfully naked and wet.

 Sherlock pulls away gasping, eyes shut tight. John takes this time to look him over. He’s seen him shirtless, seen his penis, but he’s never seen him _all_ and it’s something he immediately regrets not doing sooner. He’s skinny, probably far too skinny for his own good, but he was Sherlock. John could see some ribs, but his clavicle stood out the most. John leans forward and presses a kiss there, hears the soft sigh and continues pressing his mouth to it.

 Sherlock finally relaxes, pressing his cheek into John’s wet hair. “Sex in the shower is far cleaner. We should do it more often.”

 John giggles, nipping at his collar. “I could get behind that.”

 “Good, because I want you to fuck me.”

 John jerks his head up, hitting Sherlock’s face with enough force to send his head snapping backwards. “Oh, fuck! Sherlock, no, I’m sorry! Oh, shit…” His hands flutter over his face, but Sherlock’s just laughing, rubbing his own cheek.

 “That’s not quite the reaction I wanted.” he says.

 “God, I’m so sorry. Are you okay?”

 “I think so.”

 “You can’t just spring that on a bloke.”

 “I wasn’t. I was springing in on you.”

“Shut up. God, you’re going to bruise, aren’t you?”

 “You haven’t answered me.”

 “I’ll answer when I haven’t just broken your face.”

 “You clearly have not broken my face, John.”

 “Well, there’s a first time for everything.”

***

 “Were you serious?” John asks in the dark that night. “What you said in the shower?”

 Sherlock opens his eyes. It’s too dark to see much else but the glint of light reflecting from Sherlock’s irises. “Yes.”

 “Alright, so…we need to have, you know…the _talk_ and all that.”

 “I know how sex works, John.” Sherlock berates, but it comes out playful.

 “I’m serious. Because I _don’t_ know how it works. Not for us.”

 Sherlock’s suddenly in his space, nose brushing against his. “Would you like me to show you?”

 “I’m _serious_.”

 Sherlock nips John’s lip. “So am I.”

 “Sherlock—”

 “I don’t see what the issue is.”

 “The issue is I’m totally at a loss for what to do.”

 Sherlock rolls John over, lacing their fingers together and kissing him softly, easily. Coaxing him to relax. “I am the most brilliant mind in all of England—”

 “I don’t think that’s—”

 “Do you really think I would suggest something without knowing _exactly_ what to do and how to do it?”

 John takes a deep breath to steady himself. “I guess I hadn’t considered it.”

 “I have. I’ve done _in depth_ research. And I’d love to show you just how in depth.”

 “I thought _I_ was fucking _you_.” John giggles breathlessly.

 “I’m flexible.” Sherlock turns and pulls on his earlobe. “Are you?”

 “ _Sherlock._ ”

 Sherlock moves back and grins. Even in the dark, John can see how happy he is. He rolls his eyes and grins, too, pulling him forward and pushing their lips together.  “You’re a sap.” he mutters.

 “A horny sap.” Sherlock reminds him.

 “A horny sap.” John agrees, pulling their foreheads together. “I love you.”

 “I love you.”

 “Go to sleep.”

 Sherlock shakes his head, kissing him again. “Never. I’ll never sleep again. I want to spend every moment with you, watching you, kissing you…”

 John hums. “But you can’t, you know. You’ve got to sleep. It’s a bodily need.”

 “You sleep.” Sherlock says petulantly even while rolling off John to curl into his side.

 John threads his fingers through his hair, trying to calm his mind. It seems to work, because Sherlock practically melts. John’s fingers stall as he starts to doze, too, and then Sherlock voices is in his ear.

 “John,” he whispers.

 “Mm?”

 Sherlock traces a finger across his nose. John scrunches it, presumably because it tickles. It makes Sherlock smile. “My John.”

 John turns his face more towards Sherlock, though he doesn’t open his eyes. “Sleep, Sherlock.”

***

 “Put it down.”

 “But John—”

 “ _Down_ , Sherlock!”

 Sherlock pouts, hugging the rat to his chest. “You said that I could keep a rat.”

 “I didn’t think you were _interested!_ ”

 “ _John_ , look at him!” Sherlock thrusts the rodent at John’s face. It stares at him with beady eyes, pleading. Only John suspects it’s pleading to be let go and not pleading to go home with them.

 John raises his eyes to Sherlock, who’s practically crying. This really means nothing, though. Sherlock had a talent for crying on cue. He must realize this because his tears disappear and he narrows his eyes. “I let you keep Harry.”

 “My sister is non-negotiable.” John reminds him. He sighs, rubbing a hand over his face. He’d caught Sherlock breaking into the bio lab at the end of the day. They’d have to walk to Sherlock’s if they kept this up any longer. “Look, Sherlock, if you _really_ want the rat, you can keep him, but no experiments.”

 “He’s my pet!”

 “He’d be _our_ pet.” John says. “As I now _live_ with you.”

 Sherlock huffs, looks down at the rat and rolls his eyes. “Fine. Fine, no dangerous experiments. But I get to name him.”

 John raises an eyebrow, but concedes. At least the rat wouldn’t be in danger. “What’s his name, then?”

 Sherlock looks him over. “Well, what’s your middle name?”

 John snorts. “We’re not naming him after my middle name.”

 “No, _we_ aren’t, but I am.”

 John shakes his head. “Sherlock, we have to go.”

 “What’s your middle name?” Sherlock demands, now more concerned with the mystery that the nameless rodent.

 “Let’s go.”

 “Not until I have your middle name.”

 “Well, what’s yours?” John fires back.

 Sherlock blushes a little. “You already know it.”

 “I honestly don’t.”

 “You do.” Sherlock mutters. “Let’s go.”

 John wants to argue, but they’re going to get left behind so he doesn’t.  Sherlock tucks their new pet into an inside pocket in his coat, hugging it around him while they’re in the car. Harriet chatters aimlessly about her day while the rat wriggles. Sherlock’s mostly ignoring her and then the rat bites.

 Both Watsons look at him when he groans. Harriet looks mildly offended. “Ah, he’s not going to take you to the dance.” Sherlock says quickly. “He’s into Cleever.”

 “ _Cleever?_ His best friend?”

 “Yes, and let’s be honest, did you _really_ want him to ask you?” Sherlock grinds out, jumping again when the rat takes another bite.

 Harriet blushes. “Of course I did!” She frowns when Sherlock grits his teeth and reaches into his coat. She takes the distraction. “What are you doing? Do you have something in your coat?”

 “No.” Sherlock says quickly.

 John snorts. Harry spins on him. “What’s in his coat?”

 “Nothing.” Sherlock snaps.

 “Let me see!”

 John’s fast, catching her hands. “Paws off my boyfriend, Harry. Sit down, put your seatbelt on. We’ve got icy roads this time of year.”

 Harry huffs and sits back, giving Sherlock time to readjust the rodent who is now contentedly nibbling on _something_ in Sherlock’s pocket. He’s not sure he wants to know what. The moment the car stops, he’s out the door and running up the stairs. The rat squeaks unhappily but Sherlock knows the moment Mycroft or Mother see it, there’s no chance of keeping him.

 John finds him a few minutes later in the attic, studying the lab rat now trapped in an old rusty birdcage. “We’ll have to get him a better cage.”

 “Why?”

 “He’ll chew through that one. Unlike you, I did my homework.”

 Sherlock hums. “I still want to know your middle name.”

 John flops down on the blankets, closing his eyes with his hands behind his head. “You won’t get it.”

 Sherlock studies his boyfriend. “I could ask Harry.”

 John snorts.

 “What?”

 “You’d feel stupid having to ask my sister.”

 Sherlock frowns. He looks back at the rat, who is indeed gnawing on the cage bars. Sherlock flicks the top of the cage to get it to scuttle away. “What do rats eat?”

 “Cheese?” Sherlock looks at John with a frown and finds him grinning. In the responding silence, John opens his eyes and meets his. “I don’t know, Sherlock. Rat food. I told you, we need to go to the pet store.”

 “He can’t wait for us to get to the pet store.” Sherlock mumbles. “Watch him.”

 That’s the only warning John has before Sherlock disappears. John blinks a few times and looks over at the rat. It turns in a circle a few times and then notices him and stares. John blinks again. “What’re you looking at? You’re the one who let him take you home.”

 The rat sniffs the air towards him, a look in its eye that just screamed judgmental. John huffs and rolls over to get closer to it. “You’re going to owe me, little guy. When he’s raving about dissecting you, who do you think saves you? I’ll give you a hint, it’s not the little girl.”

 The rat stands on its hind legs and sniffs again, then grabs a bar with one paw to better balance.

 “John Hamish Watson.”

 John turns automatically, then curses. Sherlock’s leaning against the door, munching on a cupcake and looking very smug for someone with frosting on his upper lip. “Never underestimate me, John Hamish Watson. I’m never too embarrassed to discover the truth.”

 “Oh, piss off and get over here.”

 Sherlock complies, sitting next to him on the blankets and studying the rat. “Are you angry, John Ha—”

 “Oh, stop rubbing it in.” John mutters, sticking his finger in Sherlock’s frosting.

 Sherlock does the same, licking it off. “Mycroft will be upset.”

 “Because we have a rat?”

 “Because I took his cupcake.”

 John chuckles. “Ever one for making friends.”

 “I brought snacks for Hamish.”

 “We’re _not_ calling him Hamish.” John groans.

 “I am.”

 “Sherlock, please…”

 “Well, do you have a better idea?”

 “Steve.”

 “That’s a terrible name for a rat.”

 “How would you know?” John looks at their new pet. “What do you think, little guy? Steve or Hamish?”

 “He won’t answer you.”

 “Oh ye of little faith.”

 “Eat this.” Sherlock orders, shoving the other have of the cupcake—fairly frosting free—at John and moving forward. John takes a bite and watches Sherlock pull out multitudes of fruits and vegetables from his pockets. He’s fairly impressed how much fits in there.

 “He likes raisins.” Sherlock notes cheerfully, grinning over his shoulder at John.

 “Make sure he doesn’t eat too much of them. He’ll get fat.”

 “Hmm. A fat rat, imagine that.”

 John finishes his cupcake and crawls over the bed to lay over Sherlock’s back, kissing his neck lightly and without any real purpose.

 “Do not feed him lettuce.” Sherlock mutters, his pencil scratching over a notebook. “He will bite you.”

 “Did he bite you?”

 “He tried.”

 John grins, peaking over Sherlock to look at the rat. He’s white, with tiny red eyes. The typical lab rat. But really, what other kind of pet would Sherlock have? Hamish rises up on his hind legs, resting a paw on one of the bars and sniffing for more food. Sherlock lifts a chunk of apple and slides it between the bars. Hamish bites and drops to his feet, pulling the piece out and nibbling on it delicately. “Look at him.” John wonders.

 “Likes apples.” Sherlock mutters, scribbling more notes.

 “He’s got a sweet tooth.” John says, kissing Sherlock’s neck again. “Like someone else I know.”

 Sherlock pauses in his writing, but it’s only for a moment. “I do not have a sweet tooth.”

 “Yes, you do.”

 “I do not.” Sherlock insists.

 John reaches around to wipe a smear of frosting off Sherlock’s lip before sticking his thumb in Sherlock line of sight. Sherlock’s tongue automatically flicks out, licking the chococlate off, then mutters “That means nothing.”

 “Of course not.” John agrees nuzzling his shoulder.

 “Hates carrots.”

 “Mm.”

 “Not a huge fan of Swiss, either.”

 John turns his head and kisses his top lip, humming when he tastes chocolate. “You’re a terribly messy eater.” he murmurs.

 “You’re a fantastic kisser.” Sherlock mumbles, attempting to pull him closer.

 John hisses and moves back. “You’re boney, too.”

 Sherlock huffs a laugh, looking back at Hamish. “Likes the cheddar.”

 “Tease.” John accuses.

 “I’m only a tease if I don’t intend to follow through.” Sherlock says matter-of-factly.

 “You don’t look like you intend to follow through.” John accuses, once again draping himself over the younger boy.

 “Perhaps you should make me, then.” Sherlock challenges.

 John grins, kissing just under Sherlock’s jaw, teeth scraping lightly. Sherlock shivers in response. “You want to know what my favorite part about you is?”

 “I assume you’ll tell me anyway.”

 John nips him. “If you don’t want to know, I won’t tell you.”

 “I do.” Sherlock says quickly. “I want to know.”

 “I like how good you are for me.” John breathes. Sherlock shifts as a protest, but John holds him still enough to pull on his earlobe. “You are. You’d bend right over if I told you to, wouldn’t you?”

 “Yes.” he admits.

 “I like that you trust me enough to allow that.”

 Sherlock turns now, meets his eyes. “I do, you know. Trust you.”

 “I know.”

 “Do you trust me?”

 “’course I do.” John murmurs, kissing him softly. “Why do you ask?”

 “Because I want to take you somewhere this weekend.”

 “Kidnapping me?”

“Yes.”

 John grins, kisses him again. “Alright. Do I get to know where?”

 “That would defeat the purpose of the kidnapping.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, if you notice any typos feel free to let me know!


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THIS IS NOT THE SMUT CHAPTER  
> That's the next one due to counting errors  
> Once more, if you notice grammar or spelling errors or something, let me know either on here or my [tumblr](http://itsarugsbust.tumblr.com/) (if you wanna be all anonymous and whatnot)  
> Enjooooy

 “Morning, Molly.”

 “Good morning. Where’s Sherlock?”

 John shrugs, dropping into a seat next to Molly. “We got to school this morning and he took off down the hall. Might be in the basement. He’ll turn up eventually.”

 She nods in agreement. “You look well this morning.”

 “Slept surprisingly well last night.”

 “Surprisingly?”

 “Oh. Um. Well, yes. I…moved in with Sherlock.”

 “Oh.” She blinks rapidly. “You…oh. It’s…serious?”

 “I mean, it’s…it’s complicated. Something happened and…it was just easier.”

 Her face softens. “Are you okay?”

 “I will be.” he replies firmly.

 She nods. John doesn’t appreciate Molly nearly enough, he thinks. She drops the subject immediately, seeing it made him uncomfortable. “So, did you hear about the rat that got loose? The school’s panicking, trying to find it.”

 John smirks. She blinks again and then begins laughing. “He didn’t.”

 “He did. He calls it Hamish.”

 “Well, he never was one for normal, I suppose.”

“No.” John agrees. She turns to her book, a small smile on her face. “How long have you known him, Molly?”

 She looks up with wide eyes. “Me? Oh, my whole life! Our mother’s were friends.”

 “Were?”

 She frowns a little, looking at her book. “She died a few months ago. Just before you came.” She looks up at John, more confused than sad. “Sherlock didn’t tell you?”

 John shakes his head. “Why would he?”

 “Well, considering his father…” She pauses, looks back at her book. “Anyway.”

 “Sherlock never told me his father died.” John says quietly. “I guess I didn’t…think about it. Didn’t think to ask.”

 “I wouldn’t.” Molly says. Her head whips up. “John, you musn’t let him know I told you! He’ll be _furious_.”

 “Why? What happened?”

 “It doesn’t matter. Just…please, promise me you _won’t_ tell him!”

 Molly isn’t one to be mean, and she isn’t this way now. She’s fiercer than John’s ever seen her, though. Most often quiet and meek, she faded into the background quite easily. Now, though, she’s staring at him with hard brown eyes, determined he know not to step into this mess. He nods slowly. “Alright. I won’t tell him.”

 She nods once, immediately back to her quiet self. After a moment’s silence, she smiles at him. “Are you ready for the test, then?”

 John thought about their conversation all day. Sherlock never appeared in any of his classes, so it gave him free reign over his thoughts. The more he thought about it, though, the more he realized he really knew _nothing_ of Sherlock’s home life. Only that his mother was stern and his brother protectively indulgent. Still, Mycroft didn’t live at home—though he visited too often for Sherlock’s liking—and his mother was often out of the house until dinner time. The arrangement wasn’t odd, he supposed, but at the same time it seemed they all avoided each other in that large house of theirs.

 John goes to the bleachers after classes, the designated meeting spot whenever he and Sherlock were separated. He’s there now, standing tall and looking proud. John manages a curious smile. “You missed class today.”

 “This was much more important.” Sherlock says, smirking back at him.

 “And what was ‘this?’”

 Sherlock brings his hands from behind his back, holding one out to John. John cups his hand and catches what Sherlock drops—a chain with two keys. He raises his eyebrows, looks up at Sherlock. “What’s this?”

 “Well, one’s a house key. Mycroft thought you should have one in case we somehow were not together and you wanted to be back at the manor. The other is a key for where I’m taking you.”

 “You’re taking me somewhere?” John asks.

 “Isn’t that what people do? Go somewhere on dates?”

 John looks down. “I…guess so.”

 “Do you not want to go?”

 “I didn’t say that.” John says quickly, looking up and fisting his hand around his gift protectively, as if Sherlock was going to try and take it back. Sherlock smiles at his reaction, soft and adoring and utterly relieved. John looks down at it again.

 “Come with me.”

 John does, because he’ll follow Sherlock anywhere. It’s cold, but they walk and that keeps them pretty warm. John talks about what Sherlock had missed in school, and he listens with the occasional quip at the teacher’s expense, which John can’t help but laugh at. The he eventually fastens the chain around his neck, letting the keys press into his sternum with an unwarranted amount of pride.

 No amount of walking and talking can keep him from being cold forever, though, and eventually—through chattering teeth—he begins complaining. “Sh-sh-sherlock-k-k, I’m fre-e-e-ez-z-zing!”

 “It’s c-close.” Sherlock promises, his own teeth chattering.

 “Wh-why are w-w-we walk-k-king? Where’s the c-c-car?”

 “I’ll explain lat-t-ter.”

  It’s another ten minutes before the tiny cabin appears. John might’ve stopped to admire the way it looked so completely untouched, but he’s lost the feeling in his toes and fingers so instead he rushes inside. Sherlock starts the logs set up in the fireplace. They huddle up with all their gear still on under a quilt next to the flames until John’s teeth are no longer threatening to take off his tongue. “Where are we?” John finally asks.

 “Family cabin. Hasn’t been used since I was a child.”

 “It’s nice.” John says, looking around. It is nice. It’s got one room off to the side, and the rest is all piled together in the main building. He likes it. “You’re brother and mum don’t know we’re here, do they?”

 “Mycroft will know something’s up when the driver tells him that I refused to be picked up this afternoon. Mother will know we’re safe when she arrives home and finds the note I left for her.”

 “Where’d you put the note that you’ll know she’ll find it?”

 “I stapled it to your sister.”

 John looks at him sharply, and Sherlock grins. “I’m kidding. I did give it to her, though.”

 “Hmm.” John lays his head on Sherlock’s shoulder, watching the flames. “Just us for a weekend.”

 “Just us.” Sherlock agrees.

 “How far are we from your house?”

 “Maybe twenty minutes.”

 John snorts, settling in comfortably to their warmth. “We’re real rebels.”

 “I just hope they don’t come looking. We’ll be found immediately.”

 “We’re safe, so I can’t imagine they will. We’ll be back in time for school on Monday.”

 “Are you warm yet?”

 John glances up at the change in subject. “Yes, I suppose.”

 “I’m going to go start the fireplace in the bedroom.”

 “Mm, want help?”

 Sherlock smirks but shakes his head. “Not yet.”

 John peels off his jacket and boots when Sherlock leaves. The place was a bit drafty, even with the fire, so he doesn’t bother removing his jumper. Sherlock enters the room and sits behind him this time, pressing his chest to John’s back and kissing his neck.

 “Hello.” John says, grinning.

 “You had the same idea I did.” Sherlock notes.

 John realizes Sherlock’s taken his jacket and boots off, too, but that there was no jumper on and he wasn’t wearing most of the uniform. “Aren’t you cold?”

 “No.”

 “If you think your feet are touching mine tonight…” John warns.

 Sherlock chuckles, still pressing soft kisses into John’s skin. “I love you.” he murmurs.

 “I love you, too.” John says, leaning back. He closes his eyes and is close to sleep when he murmurs “Did you come here as a kid?”

 Sherlock pauses, but only for a moment. “Sometimes.”

 “With Mycroft?”

 “More often than not.”

 “What ever happened between you two?” John wonders.

 “Doesn’t matter.”

 “Does it have—” John stops himself and snaps awake.

 “What’s that?”

 “Nothing. Never mind.”

 “You’re a terrible liar.”

 John shrugs, so Sherlock pulls back from him, forcing him to turn and face the issue. “What is it?”

 “It’s just…someone…mentioned something about your father. Nothing specific, nothing…I’m just curious.”

 Sherlock bristles now, his face dropping to an impassive curtain. He stands and begins pacing.

 “Sherlock, what—”

 “Who told you? What do you know?”

 “Nothing. Nobody, I don’t know anything. Just…Molly mentioned her mother died and she said she’d thought you told me because of your father. That’s it, she didn’t say anything specific.”

 “I told her not to tell.” Sherlock says. It’s a bitter cross between heartbreak and fury.

 “Sherlock, please. Come sit. Please. I didn’t want to make you upset. We don’t have to talk about it. It’s fine. I just want you to come here.”

 Sherlock shakes his head, turning and walking back into the bedroom, leaving John staring at the spot his boyfriend had been. He hears Sherlock again and turns hopefully, but he’s pulling his coat on.

 John says nothing when he leaves.

***

 “Move over.”

 John does as he’s told automatically, too tired to remember Sherlock had been missing for hours. When he slides in next to him, the flash of cold skin wakes him up entirely . “ _Jesus!_ Sherlock?”

 “Of course it’s me. Who else would it be?” Sherlock murmurs, lips resting on his head.

 “Where have you been? I waited, but it…it got late…”

 “It’s fine, John. There are worse things to come back to than finding you in my bed.”

 John hardly relaxes. “Are you alright? You’re freezing.”

 “I walked for awhile. I can feel and move all my limbs.” Sherlock demonstrates this by drumming his cold fingers over John’s chest. Despite his shirt, John shivers. He reaches up and traps the younger boy’s hands, keeping Sherlock’s arms around him while he warms them. Sherlock presses his forehead to the back of John’s skull while John breathes hotly on their fingers. “I apologize for leaving.”

 John kisses Sherlock’s fingers quickly and then breathes on them again, but doesn’t speak. Sherlock follows his lead. John starts to think maybe Sherlock’s fallen asleep when his voice comes low in his ear. “My father died over the summer. He was the glue in my family, meaning that I didn’t get along with Mycroft or Mother but I put up with them for him.”

 John hesitates before asking “Was he like you?”

 “No.” Sherlock mumbles. “No, he wasn’t. Honestly, he was like you.”

 John shuts his eyes, pulls Sherlock closer. “I’m sorry you lost him.”

 “I’ve had some time.” Sherlock says dismissively, then thinks better of it. “But thank you.” There’s a tense silence for half a minute before Sherlock asks “What is it, John?”

 “Molly said her mum died a few months before I came. That would’ve been over the summer. She said that she was surprised I didn’t know, she’d thought you’d have told me.”

 “I’ll leave you to your deductions.” Sherlock mumbles quietly.

 “How did it happen?”

 Sherlock pauses so long John’s sure he won’t get an answer. Then “Molly…comes from a different home. A home you might understand. Her father was an unkind man, and her mother reached out. My mother wasn’t—isn’t—an affectionate woman. Molly’s mother reached out to my father and he accepted. They had an extremely long, extremely secret affair until I was ten and discovered them together.” Sherlock pulls John closer, using him as a teddy bear. “I kept it a secret. I tried deleting it, but it was always there. I hated him. I hated him for what he was doing, and I hated him for not stopping when I found out. I gave him an ultimatum at the end of the school year last year—I’d been flunking almost every class, was almost expelled more times than I could count—I told him I’d pass every class with flying colors if he’d only stop.

 “He agreed, though it made him unhappy to do so. That only made me angrier, more determined to split them up. The next time she called him and he went to her, he never came home. Molly’s father found them and shot them both.”

 The bluntness of which the story ends brings John up short. He blinks a few times before turning. “Sorry?”

 “Her father shot them both.” he says again, flatly, staring off into space. “He was arrested, Molly put up with her aunt, and it was never spoken of. Mother and Mycroft never speak of the affair, and neither do I. Molly tried to reach out to me—still tries, obviously—and I shut her down.”

 John rolls to face him, craning his neck because Sherlock’s got them pressed into every inch of each other. Sherlock looks so tired, almost sick. “Thank you for telling me.” John says in lieu of the thousands of questions bouncing around his skull.

 Sherlock meets his eyes, gives a small nod. John turns back around. They fall asleep like that.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally finished this. This is a chapter of smut. Nothing but smut. Want story developement? Nope, smut.  
> If you notice errors, let me know here or on my [tumblr](http://itsarugsbust.tumblr.com/) (in case you wanna be anon about it)

 “Get off of me.” John mutters into his pillow.

 Sherlock only lifts his head to get a look at John’s face. “It’s late, John. You need to wake up.”

 John smirks but doesn’t open his eyes. “You’re a child.”

 Sherlock’s hands slide under John’s hips. “I’m not, I promise.” When John only chuckles, Sherlock turns his head and rests their cheeks together. John had been sleeping for nearly eight hours, while Sherlock had slept for a mere five, and after entertaining himself with warming the cabin and watching John sleep for three of those, he’d clambered on top of him and started kissing whatever spots he could reach.

 And now John was being stubborn again.

 “Have you eaten?” John asks.

 Sherlock glances at John’s face from the corner of his eye. “Of course not.”

 “You should. You’re far too light.”

 “Easier for you to lift me up and fuck me against a wall.”

 John snorts. “Malnutrition isn’t attractive.”

 “Why won’t you get up?” Sherlock whines, avoiding John’s comment.

 “I’ve got a genius on top of me.”

 Sherlock turns his head and nips at John’s ear before whispering “You could have a genius underneath you if you’d _wake_ _up_.”

 “You’re very horny this morning.” John notes, finally opening an eye to look at him.

 “Mental intimacy must be a turn on for me.” Sherlock mumbles, kissing John’s jaw.

 “In that case,” John rolls them, pinning Sherlock onto his back. “I have a confession.”

 “I am wearing far too many clothes.” Sherlock interrupts. “Fix it.”

 John grins even as he rolls his eyes. “You’re impossible.”

 “Go on, tell me this secret of yours.”

 John pulls him off, tugging the dressing gown open and away. “It’s not a secret, it’s a confession.”

 “Same difference.” Sherlock says, pulling up his shirt with John’s help.

 “I use to get off thinking about you.”

 Sherlock pauses, pupil’s flaring wide. “Really?”

 “Yeah.” John says, cheeks heating. “You’re so damn good looking, how could I not?”

 Sherlock pounces. He gets John onto his back and his lips are fast and consuming on John’s. Someone moans, but John can’t tell who because the sound runs through the both of them. John has to push back when his lungs start to burn. “Tell me something.” he orders, pressing his lips hard against Sherlock’s before leaning back to catch his breath.

 “The time it took you to come around is atrocious.”Sherlock pants, pressing little kisses to John’s jaw and throat.

 “Tell me something without insulting me.” John orders, curling his fingers in Sherlock’s hair to pull.

 “You’re the biggest I’ve ever had.” Sherlock gasps.

  _Only Sherlock could_ gasp _cheekily_ , John thinks. “I’m the only you’ve ever had, you twat.”

 Sherlock grins, bending to kiss him again. John lifts and rolls Sherlock back onto his back, this time pulling the sheets over both of them. There was something about being with Sherlock under blankets that made it all more surreal. They were safe, alone, and close. It made time stand still, so the rush they felt earlier to pull at each other was gone. Sherlock’s long finger traces slowly over John’s bottom lip; slightly chapped and bitten raw, full and red. John’s careful hands work over the shape of Sherlock’s body; lean, warm and smooth, little hairs brushing over his fingers. Their breath heats up the space around them, leaving the air humid and heavy. It’s so perfect neither of them wants to break the silence.

 Sherlock, of course, is the one that does. “I’m painfully hard, John.”

 “So eloquent.” John teases before kissing him. His tongue traces over Sherlock’s bottom lip and Sherlock moans in response, nails biting into John’s bare shoulders. While John slowly works his mouth over, Sherlock can only think how _firm_ he really is. Steady and strong with muscles only now going weak with disuse. John was a heavy anchor to hold him in place. It seemed oddly fitting that John was on top of him, this reassuring weight keeping his mind of running itself right off a cliff.

 “Stop thinking.” John murmurs from Sherlock’s chest, tugging on the younger’s rampant curls.

 He doesn’t, but his thoughts come back to John and how his mouth was now nearing his nipple. John must be able to tell, because he glances up as he moves over. “I said _stop_.”

 Sherlock’s mind goes blissfully blank as John’s teeth pinch the nipple in question. John’s teeth pull back and he sucks carefully. Sherlock cants his hips upward and John pushes them back down rather forcefully. Neither are prepared for the noise that comes out of Sherlock’s mouth.

 John raises his head to find Sherlock’s eyes. It’s dark under the covers, but Sherlock can just make out the blue in John’s irises, the grin on his face. “That was a lovely noise.” John remarks.

 “If you’re very careful I’ll make it again.”

 “Careful? Careful, like…” John’s teeth graze Sherlock’s nipple again. Sherlock repeats the noise, hips rising again. John growls, pushing back down, and Sherlock’s moan breaks off into an over stimulated silence. John glances up and grins. He releases only to speak. “You alright?”

 “No.”

 “Good no or bad no?”

 “Get up here and kiss me.” Sherlock orders, pulling at John’s shoulders.

 John listens, Sherlock’s nails scraping pleasantly as lips and teeth and tongues twist together. “John, _please._ ” he begs while wrapping his legs around John’s hips.

 “We’ve got time, Sherlock.”

 “ _No_.” Sherlock groans, trying—admittedly, not very hard—to fight John off. “I need you _now_.”

 “Sherlock—”

 “ _John!”_

 He sighs, kisses him before shrugging off the blankets and reaching for the bedside table. “This is going to take a bit of time.”

 “Precisely why I want you to _hurry up_.”

 John rolls his eyes, but he moves. Sherlock watches the older boy shift between his legs, his own lip trembling ever so slightly. John watches him carefully, touching his lips to Sherlock’s cock. He shivers violently, thigh brushing against John’s hand inadvertently. It ties his stomach in knots and he can’t keep his head up anymore. He closes his eyes as it hits the pillow. “ _Jooohn.._.”

 “God, you’re so gorgeous.” John murmurs, tongue pressing from the base to his frenulum.

 Sherlock rolls his head and lets out a long moan. “John, I’m too close.”

 John squeezes ever so slightly, and while it helps Sherlock can’t help but still feel absolutely wrecked. “I wonder if I can make you come untouched.” John suddenly says. Sherlock’s chest seizes with the thought. “Probably not today. Soon, though. I’ll be able to just open you up and fuck you blind.”

 John doesn’t even seem to be speaking to him anymore. His fingers are tracing over Sherlock’s legs and cock, feeling and looking at him. It’s maddeningly conflicting. Sherlock wants to be embarrassed, wants to make a million excuses for any imperfections, but he’s so overrun with sensation that the execution is simply little whimpers of pleasure.

 “ _J-Jooohn!_ ” Sherlock gasps. He can feel the finger pressing in, pressing forward, and it’s so different. Sherlock tries to relax, especially when John murmurs it into his skin. _Relax, Sherlock, let me in…_ He can’t. He’s so high strung, so ready to come that it feels impossible.

 John tries a different tactic. He moves back, moves completely away, let’s Sherlock breath for a minute. It seems to work. He shudders a few times and then looks up for John. He props himself up on his elbows, blinks a few times blearily, eyes clouded with lust. “Come back here.” he demands.

 John climbs back over him, kisses him a couple of times. “You need to relax, Sherlock.”

 “I’m relaxed now.”

 John kisses back down his body, slow and calmly. Sherlock’s body seems to be _more_ than relaxed now. He’s practically liquid. Sherlock’s like a spring trap, waiting until John’s finger has pushed inside to tighten and hold. All of his air leaves him, his eyes wide on the ceiling, and his body’s trembling. John shushes him. “It’ alright, it’s alright, Sherlock. Does it hurt?”

 “ _Oh, god_.” he moans. “Keep going. Don’t you dare stop.”

 And John does keep going. He goes until he’s pressing his knuckles into Sherlock’s skin. They’re both inhumanly quiet, and then Sherlock manages to roll his head and meet John’s eyes. He gives him a watery smile and musters up enough attitude to say “Is that all?”

 “Shut up.” John murmurs affectionately. He presses a kiss to Sherlock’s knee. “I’m going to try moving, okay?”

 “Mm.” Sherlock sits back, eyes closed. Pulling it out seems worse than putting it in, and he makes uncomfortable whining sounds John hushes soothingly. When they get a decent amount of friction, the pain stops. Sherlock can feel the potential. “Add another.” he groans.

 John pauses, so Sherlock raises his head. “Why are you stopping?”

 “Are you sure you want another?” John asks doubtfully.

 “If you want to fuck me, you have to prep me properly, don’t you?” Sherlock asks, his hips twitching involuntarily.

 “Of course, but we’ve—”

 Sherlock thrusts down onto John’s finger pointedly. John’s mouth goes dry. Sherlock looks entirely debauched. His hair is wild and sticking to his forward thanks to the thin sheen of sweat on his flushed skin. His eyes, when opened, are nearly black with arousal. Even his beautiful lips are swollen from biting and kissing.

 John takes the finger already seated inside Sherlock and pulls back. Just as his boyfriend’s about to protest, he thrusts it in roughly and Sherlock bends in half. The noise he makes is somewhere between a curse, a whine, and a moan. When he collapses again John uses his free hand to rub over his stomach and calm him. “You hit my prostate, I think.” Sherlock pants, trembling.

 John considers, moving the finger around. Sherlock tenses and—yes, there it was. Not easily distinguishable, but undeniably there. “Good to know.” John murmurs. “Still want another finger?”

 Sherlock nods, so John obliges.  His middle finger slowly joins his index inside him. Inside was warm and tight, but honestly John was cramping up. Watching Sherlock, though, made it seem insignificant.

 By the time they get the second one moving, Sherlock’s _begging_ to come. John resists, but it’s very difficult. Sherlock’s begged before, but not like this. His eyes are squeezed shut, his hips riding John’s fingers, and he’s pleading. _John, please, please, please, oh god, please, John, John…_

 “You need one more before I can be inside.” John tells him soothingly, attempting to hold his hips still.

 “I want you inside me.” he hisses through his teeth, hands flexing to keep from touching himself. “Stretch me that way.”

 “Sherlock—”

 “ _John Watson, fuck me right now or so help me_.” Sherlock growls, eyes flying open. They’re wild, more so than John’s ever seen them. Sherlock always had a look of control about him, but it’s completely gone now. He’s _beyond_ desperate. John reaches for the lube, fingers twisting a little in the process and working the most delicious moan from his boyfriend. He fingers him while lubing himself up. He hadn’t realized how turned on he’d been by Sherlock, but he’s hypersensitive. He sits back, pulling his fingers from Sherlock, which gets avid protests.

 When he’s ready, they stare at each other for a minute. Then Sherlock sits up to pull him down and kiss him. They fit almost perfectly. Sherlock digs his heels into John’s lower back and just snogs him senselessly, messily. He’s all tongue and teeth and heavy breaths and it’s probably some of the worst kissing Sherlock’s ever done but neither of them care at this point.

 Sherlock’s still tight, and John makes high little keens and hisses in an attempt not to just slam in. He feels so _wonderful_ , and the moment John slips the head past Sherlock’s rim the dark haired boy completely collapses, his heaving chest the only sign he was still alive.

 It’s slow work, and occasionally Sherlock will make little whines of pain or pleasure. John’s hands run over his legs and his stomach as his thighs meet Sherlock’s. “This is…” he breathes, but can’t finish. He’s _completely_ inside him. What descriptor could _possibly_ cover everything he was feeling?

 Sherlock makes what John assumes to be a sound of acknowledgement, but it’s so weak it’s hard to tell. He looks up from between them to his face. Sherlock’s hands are in his hair, his eyes are open but glazed, his mouth is red and bitten from their earlier kisses and Sherlock’s own teeth. He looks absolutely gorgeous and John just needs to lean down to kiss him. Sherlock moans and responds lazily, his legs slipping over John’s hips and bringing them even closer. John’s first to pull back. “Move?”

 The nod is lazy, but sure. So John starts shifting back. Sherlock comes alive, eyes flying wide open and mouth dropping soundlessly. John’s nearly out when he pushes back in, and Sherlock reaches up, nails cutting into John’s shoulder blades. “ _Jooo—oooooooh_ …”

 “Still glad I skipped that third finger?” John jokes, moving back again.

 “Yes, yes…” Sherlock pulls up, practically hanging on John now. “God, you need to move _faster_.”

 John presses down, back into him. It goes smoother. Each time they repeat the process, it goes easier, faster. John’s pressing sloppy kisses into Sherlock’s mouth and neck and Sherlock is letting out the most beautiful noises to accompany the slapping of skin. It’s only a few minutes until Sherlock’s fed up with him and rolls them, somehow keeping John inside him. Seeing Sherlock perched above him, knowing he was inside him, drives John to the brink of coming. He grasps desperately for Sherlock’s cock, which is red and over-sensitive.

 The moment John gets ahold of him, Sherlock freezes. His nails cut into John’s pecs and his breathing becomes even _more_ labored. John runs his thumb over the slight and Sherlock moans. “God, you’re so beautiful.” John whispers. “Fuck, Sherlock.”

 “John…” he breathes, shivering. “Don’t…”

 Neither of them are sure how his sentence was supposed to end. _Don’t say that, don’t tease me, don’t stop, don’t continue…_ but it doesn’t matter, because John squeezes ever so slightly on his upstroke and Sherlock’s coming. His hands lose their purchase and John automatically surges up to catch him, sitting with Sherlock limp in his arms, his hand still working Sherlock through orgasm.

 When he’s finished, Sherlock grabs John’s wrist to stop him. He leans down to kiss the older quickly before climbing off carefully. John leans back and watches Sherlock peel off the condom before sinking his mouth onto John’s cock.

 His head drops back onto a pillow and Sherlock purrs. John’s fingers find his hair and grip tightly, not sure whether or not he wants to pull him off or pull him closer. He goes for the latter, because Sherlock sucks hard and John can’t hold himself back anymore. They both moan and Sherlock braces himself as John comes down his throat.

 Sherlock sucks lightly as he pulls off. John cards his fingers through his hair lazily as he catches his breath. “That was…” John mumbles.

 Sherlock makes a noise of agreement and rolls over, careful to keep his shoulder pressed to John’s hip. He considers falling asleep there, but he feels sticky with sweat, and he imagines John’s no better, what with Sherlock’s come cooling on his stomach. “I fully except you to be doing that every chance you get.” Sherlock says quietly, wanting to fill the silence while simultaneously not disturbing it.

 John chuckles. “What a hardship for me.” he says. He gives it another minute before standing and going to the bathroom, conveniently only across the room. “You’re going to be unbelievably sore, you know.” he calls behind him.

 “I never want to feel any different.” Sherlock sighs, stretching.

 “The great Sherlock Holmes likes a cock in his arse.” John teases. “Who could’ve guessed?”

 “Not _a_ cock. Your cock.” Sherlock corrects, then sighs. “I wish you hadn’t come. I’d have you inside me again.”

 John comes back into the room and tosses a flannel on top of him. He climbs back in beside his boyfriend and pulls the covers over himself. “Don’t worry, I’m sure we’ll find time to do it again.” He looks Sherlock over, at how exhausted and satisfied he looks. “That was a good start to the morning.”

 Sherlock finally reaches for the rag. “I agree.”

 “Kind of curious what else we can do with our morning, now.”

 Sherlock finally tosses the washcloth away before worming his way under the covers beside John. “Sleep, I imagine.” he rumbles, closing his eyes.

 “You think I’m going to let you sleep?” John snorts. “After what you’ve done to me this morning?”

 “If you remember correctly, _you_ did something to _me_.”

 John chuckles, brushing his finger over Sherlock’s nose. The younger boy’s nose twitches, but his eyes don’t open. “Was it good?” John wonders.

 Sherlock smirks. “You’re asking me that? Really?”

 John runs his finger over Sherlock’s nose again. “I suppose I’m more asking if you enjoyed it.”

 “It was alright.” Sherlock says, cracking an eye open and smirking.

 “Don’t be an arse.”

 Sherlock slides one leg between John’s while closing his eye again. “It was fantastic, you idiot. Of course it was.”

 John smiles and runs his finger down Sherlock’s nose again. “I’m glad. I didn’t want to mess it up.”

 “Impossible.” Sherlock murmurs sleepily. “John Watson could never mess up when it comes to loving Sherlock Holmes.”


End file.
